


Seaside / Undertow / With Eyes Closed

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beach Holidays, Collaboration, Illustrated, M/M, Ocean, Seaside, Snake!Crowley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-26
Updated: 2006-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, a simple change of scenery makes a world of difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seaside

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations by LinnPuzzle
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in 2006.)

"And ssso," Crowley was saying, gesturing vaguely with fanned fingers, "it's got to be at _leasssst_ …er…what was I on about, again?"  
  
"Age of the earth," Aziraphale said, distractedly, staring into the bottom of his glass. Except for some ruby-bright droplets pooled in the bottom, it was empty. Had it been his fourth, he wondered, or his fifth? Never could be buggered to keep track this many pitchers along. He also couldn't remember why Crowley was on about the age of the earth, because they _knew_ that. Down to the second, even. "I think."  
  
"Yesss, right," Crowley slurred, swilling around the remainder of his Pimm's. He'd tossed in all the various kinds of fruit that he'd been able to find in his refrigerator, which had actually been kind of impressive, and the result was rather more reminiscent of sangria. "You figure, it'sss got to be…er. 'Member that bird?"  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale said, glancing up at Crowley, feeling pleasantly sleepy. This was where it was at, really. Good old days again, or the closest they'd ever got to them, anyway.  
  
"Right, then," said Crowley, triumphantly, setting his glass down with enough force to knock over the pitcher, which was empty except for the mushy collection of berries that clung to the bottom. "Bloody old planet. Cheerssss."  
  
"We're out," Aziraphale said blankly, blinking at the pitcher. It righted itself, and the fruit ceased to be mushy as it refilled. Much better. He tried filling both their glasses again and got almost as much on the table as he got in the glasses. Bugger. He sobered up a little, wincing, as he raised his glass to touch Crowley's. "Er, cheers."  
  
"Cheater," Crowley said, and downed his refill in two gulps. He set the glass down beside the pitcher, splashing the remnants on the table, and swayed in his seat.  
  
Aziraphale frowned at him, dabbing his mouth with one of the several brightly colored linen napkins Crowley had unaccountably left lying on his table. "My dear, are you quite – "  
  
"Ngk," Crowley said matter-of-factly, and fell out of his chair.  
  
"Ah," sighed Aziraphale, stretching before rising from his seat. "I see." He bent over Crowley, frowning, and prodded the demon with his toe. "Er. Crowley?"  
  
Crowley stirred at the prodding, but only to curl up on the spot, breathing into the Pimm's-stained carpet as if he'd be perfectly content to lie there all night.  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Aziraphale muttered. He prodded Crowley again, but all it produced was a yawn and a rather pathetic half-snore. "Very well," Aziraphale said, bending down beside Crowley. He took care of the stains first, then rolled Crowley onto his back. Crowley made a noise indicating that perhaps his subconscious wasn't happy about leaving the carpet, but about the time Aziraphale managed to get one arm worked behind his neck and the other under his knees, he was hissing softly, completely asleep.  
  
"You will not remember this in the morning," Aziraphale told him flatly, and lifted him with a grunt. Crowley wasn't heavy – he'd never been – but it still took a bit of effort to get a dead-weight body off the floor when one's own body was in a state of less-than-perfect coordination. "I hope," Aziraphale added, flinching as he bumped Crowley's shin into the wall on his first try at finding the darkened hallway. He sobered up some more.  
  
Crowley had two bedrooms, but Aziraphale knew that one of them had never seen any use and likely never would. The thought of Crowley entertaining guests was amusing, really – or rather, the thought of him having guests _overnight_ was amusing. Aziraphale passed the office and the spare room by, finding it necessary to miracle on the lights and nudge open the bedroom door with his toe. Crowley was getting heavier.  
  
The room didn't look especially lived-in, but then, neither did the rest of Crowley's flat. Maybe he should have left the stains on the floor, reasoned Aziraphale. Would have done the place some good. Shaking himself, he carried Crowley the last few feet to the bed and lowered him onto the perfect, smooth duvet as carefully as he could. Crowley's head lolled back against the pillows, his sunglasses badly askew.  
  
Aziraphale bit his lip, sparing Crowley a last glance as he turned to go. He really oughtn't leave him like that; while he wasn't human, he had it on good authority _from_ a few humans that falling asleep fully clothed was a generally embarrassing and uncomfortable thing. Cautiously, Aziraphale turned back and sat down on the edge of the bed. He removed Crowley's sunglasses, folded them, and set them on the bedside table. Aside from the vaguely pinkish hue of his lips (as easily fixed as the carpet), he looked pale and relaxed, if a bit disheveled. Aziraphale shifted his weight on the mattress, only to feel Crowley's…some part of Crowley warm against the small of his back. He glanced down and saw that Crowley was still wearing his boots. Well, then.  
  
The fact that they zipped seemed a bit excessive, but they were the modest ankle-high sort, nothing too outlandish like those knee-high ones that teenagers (and possibly Anathema Device) seemed to fancy. Aziraphale tossed one on the floor, then the other, briefly mesmerized by the way the overhead light gleamed off the subtle reddish-blackish hue of the snakeskin. Crowley had on black socks, which was boring and decidedly unglamorous; Aziraphale wondered whether he ought to take those off, too, then thought better of it. Some things were just ridiculous, and besides, he could _picture_ Crowley's ankles. They were probably as pale as his face and sort of skinny looking without something to cover them.  
  
Aziraphale drew his hand away, tugging Crowley's trouser-leg down for good measure.  
  
That ought to do it, he told himself, standing up. Crowley looked as comfortable as he was reasonably going to get, except for the fact that he was still in his jacket and it had been oddly warm during recent nights. Irritated, Aziraphale waved away the jacket, making sure it landed properly on a hanger in the closet. There. Crowley wouldn't overheat, now, and he really was out cold, the poor dear. His pallor had already lessened somewhat, overrun by a faint flush that had crept up from his neck…  
  


  
  
_That_ wouldn't do, either. _Just this last_ , Aziraphale told himself, and bent over Crowley, fingers brushing Crowley's collar. Easy enough to find the top few buttons, but not so easy to work them free. Aziraphale fumbled at the second one, pausing to see if he'd missed some of the alcohol in his bloodstream. He let his breath out, finally, and gave up on the third button, yanking it loose. He parted the collar, finding the skin along Crowley's collarbone fever-warm.  
  
A second later, fingers lingering, he found himself staring into Crowley's open eyes.  
  
"Well, thisss," Crowley said, eyes drifting half-closed again, "is interessssting."  
  
"Er," said Aziraphale, desperately, smoothing Crowley's collar again before yanking his hands away, "yes, definitely, though you'll thank me for it before morning, I'm sure. Ah. Dream of…er. Sweet ones. Dreams, I mean. I had better be going…"  
  
As he walked out, Aziraphale listened to make sure Crowley had fallen back to snoring.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
In the wake of, well, _everything_ happening, Aziraphale had found himself less opposed to the idea of sleep than before. What with his job description considerably revised, and all of the curious silence regarding the whole affair, it seemed as if the present was as good a time as any to take a breather, a sort of holiday. It hadn't come easily, of course, though dozing after a cup of tea and a good, long read hadn't been as difficult as he'd assumed it would be. A few weeks later, he'd dozed off at midnight and hadn't awakened till Crowley rang him at nine.  
  
On this particular morning, the phone was ringing again, and Aziraphale didn't want to answer it. He didn't dare guess what time it was, either, because if his suspicions were correct, they were both of them bound to be a touch hung over. He closed his eyes more tightly, but the phone went on ringing. Some minutes later, he dragged himself out of bed and made his way downstairs, yawning. Sleep was hard to throw off.  
  
"Hello?" asked Aziraphale, glancing at the clock and wondering, given that it was almost eleven, if it wasn't a client after all. "You ought to know, I'm not open until – "  
  
"All hours, as far as I'm concerned," said Crowley, yawning. "Who were you expecting, then? The delivery-men with a shiny new shipment of Roald Dahl?"  
  
"Now, that was unnecessary," Aziraphale said reasonably. "As I recall, _Matilda_ was quite charming, and – "  
  
"And you're stalling," Crowley replied, suddenly too cheerful for as early as it was. "I found a really excellent bistro not too far from here that serves late breakfast."  
  
"I'm not _dressed_ ," Aziraphale said automatically, then regretted it.  
  
"That's interesting," Crowley said, making Aziraphale's heart skip an unnecessary beat, then went on, "but I'm not sure the dress code is _that_ lax."  
  
"Perhaps I've had enough of your company for one week," Aziraphale said, cautious, not sure he meant it. He hoped Crowley was feeling all right. He'd been rather inconsiderate to leave him like that, all the niceties aside. Aziraphale bit his lip.  
  
"I'm disappointed," said Crowley, yawning again. "You're a better liar than that. One o'clock," he added, and hung up.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Aziraphale muttered, realizing that he'd somehow developed a headache. Tea. First tea, then a bit more cataloguing, and after that he'd get dressed…  
  
On second thought, he clothed himself first.  
  
All in all, Crowley was insufferably cheerful – as insufferably cheerful as he could get, mind – and seemed so glad to see Aziraphale that he probably had no memory whatsoever of the previous evening. Sitting back in his seat as the Bentley screeched into the street, he breathed a sigh of relief. That slip on the phone had been entirely coincidence, and he was simply being paranoid. Funny, he'd thought there would be little call for that, what with the world back on track (insofar as it being in the hands of the former Antichrist could be considered "on track").  
  
"You're quiet," Crowley said, dangling one arm out the window.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't do that," muttered Aziraphale, dodging the observation.  
  
"You're also evasive."  
  
Aziraphale sucked in his breath. Very well, two could play at this.  
  
"You're nosy."  
  
"It's my job."  
  
"You don't _have_ a job."  
  
"Awfully cheerful yourself, for being unemployed."  
  
"We haven't been _fired_ ," Aziraphale reminded him testily. A glance at the rearview mirror told him that Crowley was enjoying this far more than he should.  
  
"No, of course not," Crowley said, drawing his arm back inside and placing his perfectly poised fingers on the steering wheel. "We've been suspended, if you like. Temporarily laid off."  
  
"I don't know about yours," said Aziraphale, casually, "but I certainly haven't found my finances in shambles."  
  
"Neither have I," Crowley replied, his tone frank. "Stocks and everything in order – er, except the ones I sold. How do you think I've been able to afford taking you out at least three times a week for the past eleven years, eh?"  
  
"You haven't paid _every_ time," Aziraphale objected. "I've contributed more than my fair – "  
  
"Here it is," Crowley said, turning the wheel sharply. "I hope you don't mind going Dutch; it's a bit steep." He pulled smoothly into the parking spot, turning off the ignition.  
  
It was, in fact, a bit steep, but not as steep as the Ritz, and Aziraphale pointed this out as soon as they'd ordered (the same thing, he'd noted with annoyance). Crowley ignored him and went about wrestling his Twinings tea bag out of its wrapper.  
  
"Earl Grey?" he asked, offering Aziraphale the basket of miscellaneous teas.  
  
"Assam," Aziraphale said, more out of contrariness than anything else. He rather _did_ fancy some Earl Grey, but Crowley had his sunglasses back on and was smiling that irksome, knowing smile of his that tended not to show up unless he knew full well he was winning a given round in their eternal, Arranged struggle.  
  
"Mm," said Crowley, simply, and set the basket back down between them. "Good choice."  
  
For the most part, they ate in silence, both of them being genuinely hungry after having had several pitchers of Pimm's apiece in lieu of dinner the evening before. It was times like this, when Crowley wasn't so bent on talking, that Aziraphale could notice the particulars: Crowley liked toast _terribly_ , and he ignored the strawberry jam in favor of the currant. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley knew he liked marmalade best, and he wondered how Crowley could stand his tea that sweet. Mysteries.  
  
"'S good, hmmm?"  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale said around a mouthful of eggs. "Very."  
  
By the time Aziraphale thought to ask how Crowley had come by the establishment without his help, they were nearly finished, and the server had swished past them briskly, leaving the bill in the wake of her long, pulled-back hair. Crowley picked it up and frowned at it, chewing on a last bite of toast.  
  
"I'll take care of it," Aziraphale said, snatching the leather folder out of his hand.  
  
"Too little, too late," Crowley said, snatching it back.  
  
Aziraphale sighed, then picked up his teacup. No use arguing.  
  
"If it makes you happy."  
  
"Very funny, angel."  
  
"We're getting odd looks, you know."  
  
"You always get odd looks."  
  
" _Crowley_."  
  
"What?" asked Crowley, innocently, eyebrows flying up above the rims of his sunglasses as he slid a credit card into the slot in the folder. "You're going to give yourself indigestion."  
  
"We don't _get_ indigestion."  
  
"We don't get hangovers, either, I suppose," muttered Aziraphale.  
  
"I," Crowley said, handing the folder back to the server as she swished past again, "am not answering that."  
  
Aziraphale's chest tightened.  
  
"Fine, fine. I suppose you're going to break the news now, aren't you?"  
  
Crowley's eyebrows leapt at an alarmed angle.  
  
"News? What, are you telling me there's something I ought to know abou – "  
  
"My dear," Aziraphale sighed, trying to sound reasonable, "you don't just treat me to breakfast for nothing."  
  
"Of course I do," Crowley said, rubbing his temples. "It's just that it's usually lunch or dinner."  
  
"I think you had something to tell me last night, too."  
  
"I can't think what."  
  
"Of course you can't," Aziraphale snapped, dangerously close to ruining everything. Not even putting Crowley to sleep like that would block those unconscious memories for good. They'd come up sooner or later, and probably over a hors-d'oeuvres. "I'd rarely seen you less sober."  
  
"Your level of grammatical correctness, given the circumstances, is disturbing."  
  
Aziraphale set his teacup down, rattling the saucer. _Ridiculous_ , and still pale, his bloody cheeks and ankles and collarbone along with him. If Crowley wanted to play nasty –  
  
"You were trying to figure out things you know as well as the backs of your hands."  
  
Crowley smiled at him, but it was a dangerous sort of smile.  
  
"You're making the prospect of asking you along on holiday less and less appealing."  
  
Aziraphale took several seconds to process what Crowley had just said.  
  
"…Holiday?"  
  
"Yes," Crowley admitted, suddenly reluctant, even a trifle vulnerable. The waitress swished by a third time, leaving the folder in front of Crowley. He opened it brusquely, signed one slip, and tucked the other into his inside pocket along with his credit card. "I thought maybe you would have guessed why I was so keen on getting smashed last night."  
  
Aziraphale felt a distinct, sinking feeling that he'd only felt a few times before, and those times had all involved matters pertaining to the 1) the Antichrist and 2) the world ending.  
  
"I thought you said you hadn't heard anything," he said, almost in a whisper.  
  
"I _hadn't_ ," Crowley corrected. "Not till yesterday, anyway. I didn't have the heart to tell you."  
  
"You do realize this implies you have a heart."  
  
"Shut up," Crowley hissed, standing up, forcing Aziraphale to follow him off the patio and back in the direction of where they'd parked. "Anyway, I _heard_ something yesterday afternoon," he said, walking briskly, "and it wasn't exactly what I'd call a chat, but it seems as if they don't remember a damned thing, pardon the expression, except for the fact that there still _is_ , er, the boy, and…" Crowley trailed off, frowning fiercely at the sidewalk, picking up his pace.  
  
"And?" asked Aziraphale, jogging to catch up. "Well, _what_?"  
  
"They want me to keep an eye on him," Crowley said. "That's all. I've been demoted to the office of spy, if you like."  
  
"Wasn't that always in the description?"  
  
"Not as such," Crowley said, slowing down abruptly, glancing sidelong at Aziraphale. "On _you_ , I suppose – it was probably implied, you know, but it's not as if they had us filling out reports about anything other than rows, and if you think about it, even those were more of the smiting and less of the spying – "  
  
"Keep an eye on him," Aziraphale repeated. "That's _all_ they want you to do?"  
  
Crowley was silent for a few seconds, then shrugged.  
  
"Apparently."  
  
"You made it sound a lot worse than it actually is."  
  
"Funny, you'd think Upstairs would want you spying on him, too."  
  
"I don't know about that," Aziraphale said, thinking it over, shivering with the conclusion he reached. "If you ask me, this sounds more like _his_ doing. As you put it – well, for _my_ money? We're on an entirely different payroll, and I'm not sure it's not the same one."  
  
Crowley stopped in his tracks, then looked Aziraphale full in the eyes, giving him a blank stare.  
  
"I really hate it when you remind me how sharp you are."  
  
"That's why you do the driving, dear," Aziraphale said, patting him on the shoulder. "So, what do…er, they have in mind? Constant surveillance? The occasional meddling?"  
  
"Occasional meddling," Crowley said, still gaping.  
  
"Sounds to me as if _we're_ the ones being watched, then," said Aziraphale, pleased.  
  
"I can't imagine why you're happy about it."  
  
"If you ask me," Aziraphale said, walking ahead to the car, "he's a much nicer young man than Warlock _ever_ was."  
  
Crowley was silent the whole way back to the bookshop, which was just as well, because it was much easier to steal glimpses of Crowley's reflection when he was too busy sulking at the road ahead and all the other motorists along with it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"The ocean," repeated Aziraphale, staring at the suitcase Crowley had thumped down in front of him on the desk. "You're sure?"  
  
"Positive," said Crowley. "And it's not just the Young family down there, either. They've got the redheaded brat and her sister and mother along for the ride."  
  
"Pepper," said Aziraphale, absently, remembering the sound of the girl's name on one of the boys' lips. "She has a sister?"  
  
"Apparently," Crowley said, sitting down next to the suitcase, which meant Aziraphale got a good view of his coat pocket, lap, and casually crossed legs. "All I know is what I've managed to dig up with a little snooping around."  
  
"What you call snooping, my dear, most people call invasion of privacy."  
  
"Give me some credit, will you? No identities were stolen in the procuring of this information. Assumed, certainly, but not _stolen_."  
  
Aziraphale remembered his embarrassing brush with directory assistance and his brief, clumsy exchange with Mr. Young. There was a _reason_ he hated telephones, after all. At least one of them didn't mind using the infernal contraptions.  
  
"Anyway, we're leaving this afternoon."  
  
"I'll have to close!" protested Aziraphale, standing up, seeing as he hadn't been able to meet Crowley's eyes from that angle and as Crowley was probably starting to notice.  
  
"I wasn't aware that you'd opened."  
  
"The minute someone walks in the door, I'm open."  
  
"I'm not a client, so I don't count. Besides, your sign very clearly says that you're closed."  
  
Aziraphale sighed, tossing away the newspaper. From that angle, he could at least see Crowley's front and that Crowley's shirt had a very fine, pinstripe weave to it.  
  
"You'll have to wait until I'm packed."  
  
"That," Crowley said, slithering off the desk and into Aziraphale's chair, "isn't a problem."  
  
It was a different matter, of course, when Aziraphale finally dragged his valise down the stairs and announced that they could load up now. Crowley blinked at him as if he'd gone mad, asking when that thing had last been approved for standard travel use, and he'd found it necessary to inform Crowley that well-made luggage _never_ goes out of style.  
  
"I'm locking you in the trunk, too," Crowley muttered, taking the valise from Aziraphale before he could protest. "Let's get a move on, shall we?"  
  
Aziraphale reached for his luggage, protesting, "But you've got – "  
  
" _Now_ , angel."  
  
Fortunately, the trip wasn't as silent as it could have been. Crowley had decided, once they'd gotten off the M25 and out of London's orbit, that it was actually quite a pleasant weekend for this sort of thing. When Aziraphale asked him exactly what he meant by it, Crowley said he was being snippy again and, therefore, Crowley could listen to whatever music he wanted. Aziraphale experienced a few moments of horror so well timed that he knew he couldn't possibly be winning this round, either.  
  
"I told you," Crowley said, tapping the steering wheel in rhythm, "you wouldn't like it."  
  
"It's…the same thing over and over," Aziraphale said, trying his best. What he really wanted to say was, _This is snake-charming music_ , but that wouldn't have gone over very well, and he had finally decided that Crowley in a pleasant mood was preferable to Crowley in an agitated one, however interesting Crowley got when agitated.  
  
"So is Classical," Crowley pointed out. "I bet it's not what the name led you to believe, is it?"  
  
"The, er, lyrics match up rather well, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said, though the term Velvet Underground was still somewhat mystifying. They could, admittedly, _sing_. Or something close to it. One had to take what one could get these days, after all.  
  
They stopped for a late lunch, but by then they were already more than halfway to their destination, and Crowley seemed to be looking more for an excuse to eat than anything else. Aziraphale could hardly complain; Crowley's instinct with respect to restaurants was, nine times out of ten, entirely unerring. They had a glass of wine each, which resulted in Crowley being even more talkative the rest of the way to Brighton, and even more fascinating to watch in the mirror. Once, briefly, his eyes caught Aziraphale's – but only once. Aziraphale couldn't help but feel relieved, and said little.  
  
The place that they were staying was not in Brighton proper, and neither was the beach. It made sense, really, what with the Youngs and their guests probably not being able to afford anything more extravagant. Aziraphale felt somewhat guilty that Crowley had, in fact, booked them into an upscale inn not far from the cheaper accommodations that the Young family had chosen. Still, it was close, and Aziraphale was sure that they wouldn't be spending much time in the room as it was. No sense in booking two rooms, he'd told Crowley, especially considering eating expenses.  
  
Crowley had stared at him, shrugged, and picked up the car phone to dial.  
  
When they arrived, the young man at the reception desk (working for his parents for the summer, no doubt, and against his will) gave them a swift glance up and down before accepting Crowley's credit card. "You're sure one room will serve?" he asked.  
  
"Of course," replied Crowley, coolly. "We're here for the night life."  
  
"Not much of that," muttered the young man, under his breath, and checked them in.  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips, careful to look anywhere but at Crowley. The reception was tastefully, if a bit _too_ rustically, decorated, and he quite liked the curtains.  
  
"You're in 67," said the young man, handing Crowley what sounded like the keys.  
  
"One off," Crowley sighed. "You can't have everything. Come on, angel."  
  
Aziraphale picked up his valise and followed Crowley out the door, mortified, unable to bring himself to turn and look at the young man as we waved goodbye. Certainly they'd embarrassed the poor lad enough. They weren't in London anymore, after all.  
  
It took Crowley a few minutes of swearing and wrestling with the key in the lock to get the door, which was painted a badly-chipped pale blue, open. The room was dark, curtains drawn, but it didn't smell of dust, and the bed was freshly made –  
  
The _bed_ was –  
  
"Well, at least they had enough foresight to know you don't sleep," Crowley said. He set down his suitcase and sprawled out on the bed, taking up a surprising amount of space for as slim as he was. "Quite comfortable."  
  
"I thought you'd booked a twin," Aziraphale said, setting down his valise. The sinking feeling had returned, and it was difficult not to stare at Crowley when he was in approximately the same position as he'd been in a few nights before.  
  
"I thought I had, too," Crowley said, loosening his tie. "Still, I know I can count on you to be a good sport about it."  
  
"I'm not sleeping on the _floor_ ," Aziraphale said, irritated.  
  
"Look, you don't have to – what?" Crowley asked, as if it hadn't sunk in properly.  
  
"I am not," Aziraphale repeated, bending to remove a few books from his valise, "sleeping on the floor."  
  
"Oh," Crowley said, and Aziraphale heard him sit up. "Since when do you…"  
  
"Recently," said Aziraphale, self-consciously. "It's relaxing."  
  
"Interesting," Crowley said, and closed his eyes with a sigh.  
  
It took Aziraphale a few seconds to find his capacity for speech again, and by the time he had, Crowley was dozing – which was evident mostly because he'd begun to make those sounds that were stuck somewhere between a hiss and a snore. Aziraphale sighed and sat down at the table, sorting through his books.  
  
It was going to be a long evening, and an even longer night.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Sometime before dawn, Aziraphale woke to find his nose pressed between the pages of his book and Crowley's hand gently, but insistently shaking his shoulder.  
  
"Hmmn?" asked Aziraphale, sitting up as straight as he could given his undignified napping fit. Really, was it such a hard habit to break? He rubbed his eyes.  
  
"Your turn," Crowley said, sounding rather foggy himself. He'd removed his jacket, and his tie was gone. He was standing there in his bare feet, sunglasses off, eyes as bleary as if he had just gotten up. He probably had.  
  
"What? Crowley, what _time_ is it?"  
  
Crowley glanced over his shoulder at the dimly lit bedside clock, then back at Aziraphale.  
  
"Two in the morning, which is why it's bloody well your turn."  
  
"My turn to…?"  
  
"Take the bed, unless you're going to be an idiot and suddenly insist you've changed your mind about it."  
  
Aziraphale stood up and stretched, making a big show of the gesture. Why shouldn't he?  
  
"No, actually," he said, casually removing his coat and draping it over the chair. "That's most kind of you. Don't mind if I do."  
  
"Don't push it," Crowley muttered, and sat down in Aziraphale's chair.  
  
Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed, testing the mattress. It was, in fact, a perfectly comfortable mattress, and a tentative leaning back told him it was more than just that when one was sprawled out full-length. Aziraphale sighed, situating himself against the pillows. _Lovely_.  
  
"Rub it in, why don't you," Crowley muttered, already leafing through Aziraphale's book. "Where are the good bits? I don't want to slog through the nonsense."  
  
"It's all good," Aziraphale said, yawning. "Don't peek at the end."  
  
"Too late," said Crowley, bitterly.  
  
Aziraphale opened his eyes, chest clenched with a pang of guilt.  
  
"It's a big enough bed, I suppose," he said reluctantly.  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
"There's enough _room_ , I mean," Aziraphale said, quickly shifting his gaze from Crowley back to the ceiling. "There's no use in letting you sulk about it. That way, neither of us will get any sleep at all."  
  
He heard Crowley stand up.  
  
"You're sure?" asked the demon, tentatively.  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale said, closing his eyes. "So long as you don't kick."  
  
"I don't know if I do," Crowley said, his voice migrating around to the opposite side of the bed. "It's not as if I'm in the habit of sharing my bed with other people."  
  
"Well, I suppose we'll find out," Aziraphale said, already drifting off. He felt the mattress dip, then shift again as Crowley stretched out beside him. "You're not cold?"  
  
"No," Crowley said, sounding sleepy again. "'Ssswarm."  
  
"Yes," agreed Aziraphale. It was quite pleasant, lying there like that, with Crowley's body radiating just enough heat to keep him comfortable.  
  
When Aziraphale woke some time later, pale sunlight was filtering through the half-closed curtains. His first impulse was to sit up, as he felt very well rested, but he didn't get any farther than lifting his head and neck from the pillow. There was something warm and heavy pinning his left shoulder, and, after a few seconds, he realized that his cheek was resting against it, and that it was soft and smelled of an understated, expensive shampoo.  
  
Crowley sighed in his sleep and snuggled closer, burying his nose in Aziraphale's neck.  
  
For long, panicked seconds, Aziraphale wondered if his best option would be to pretend that he was still asleep for as long as it took Crowley to wake up, discover what he was doing, and flinch away before Aziraphale discovered him. The only trouble was, the damage was already done, and as much as Aziraphale found that he _wanted_ to close his eyes and pretend to be asleep, it didn't sit well with his conscience.  
  
Carefully, Aziraphale took hold of Crowley's elbow – somehow, Crowley's arm had ended up draped across his chest – and shoved gently, but firmly. Crowley made a low, irritated sound in his sleep, but he didn't wake up as Aziraphale eased him off and back against his own pillow. Breathing a sigh of relief, Aziraphale sat up, stretched…and glanced over his shoulder at Crowley. His hair was mussed, and there was a red splotch on his cheek where it had been pressed against Aziraphale's shoulder for who knew how many hours.  
  
Aziraphale got up before the temptation to smooth Crowley's hair grew too strong.  
  
The shower was small, but it worked well enough. Aziraphale would have preferred a bath, but the room, despite its lavish decoration, was small, and wouldn't have contained a larger bathroom. He sighed into the white towel, drying his face vigorously.  
  
Dressing himself out of thin air was becoming something of a habit.  
  
When Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom, Crowley was awake. He was flipping through channels on the television, still in the clothes he'd slept in, obviously bored. He hadn't replaced his sunglasses, and Aziraphale noticed that his eyes had the same dark circles under them that some of Aziraphale's clients sported all the time.  
  
"Did you sleep well?" Aziraphale asked, fetching his coat from the chair, at a loss for anything else to say. "The shower's free, if you like."  
  
"I can see that," Crowley said, not bothering to look away from the television. He seemed to have gotten mildly interested in some quiz show or another. Aziraphale never could keep track of all of them, and when Crowley tried to explain what was going on, he invariably ended up lost or confused, or both. "You left some hot water, I hope?"  
  
"Plenty, my dear," said Aziraphale, knotting his tie, glancing sidelong at his book. It was open to a page near the end, and it was little wonder Crowley had given up then and there. Once you knew what was on that page, it did lose something of its adventure.  
  
Crowley left without a word, leaving the television on the quiz show. Aziraphale turned it off as soon as he heard the shower running, and set about tidying up the bed. He knew that room service would be along, but if he could make the job just a bit easier on them, well, he would. Aziraphale had scarcely finished putting his things in one side of the small bureau when Crowley wandered in wearing a shirt and trousers, the shirt hanging carelessly open. He gave Aziraphale a funny look.  
  
"Moving in, are we? I really don't understand your preoccupation with buying clothes."  
  
"Come, now, I've known you to do it on occasion."  
  
"Only when it's something I wasn't clever enough to think up myself."  
  
Aziraphale closed the drawer and stood up, meeting Crowley's eyes briefly before glancing away and out the window. It looked to be another sunny day, but the leaves in the trees danced as if a breeze had swept in off the sea.  
  
"Perhaps we ought to go looking for them," he suggested. "Get our bearings and all that."  
  
"If you say so," said Crowley, snapping his fingers. His shirt was buttoned, though he didn't seem to intend to wear his jacket. He left the shirt untucked, which was strange of him, and it somehow made him seem even more angular. The sunglasses were back, which Aziraphale found vaguely disappointing. He was growing accustomed to looking at Crowley's eyes again after so many decades of them covered. "I thought we might do breakfast first," Crowley admitted, fiddling with his cuffs.  
  
"There's a café on the terrace," said Aziraphale. "I read it in a brochure."  
  
"Well, then," Crowley said, collecting their keys off the table, spinning them around one crooked finger. "What are we waiting for?"  
  
They had a simple breakfast, tea and scones and an odd variety of Danishes. Aziraphale ordered a cup of coffee to finish up, and Crowley asked him how on earth he could stand the vile stuff. Aziraphale shrugged. It was something of a pick-up, like chocolate.  
  
"You've got to lay off those books," warned Crowley, already slipping his credit card under the clip on the plastic tray the bill had been delivered in. " _Especially_ Dahl."  
  
"Nonsense," Aziraphale said, dabbing the coffee neatly off his lips. "I've always been fond of chocolate."  
  
For the briefest moment, Crowley seemed to fluster. He turned around in his seat, waving for the absent-minded young waiter who'd mixed their order up with somebody else's on the first go. They left the café in silence.  
  
"You're right," he said, unlocking the door to their room, holding it open for Aziraphale. "We had better hit the beach. I'm sure the kids have been keeping their parents down there every day, rain or shine."  
  
"How long have they been here?" Aziraphale asked, selecting another book from the stack he'd brought. This one would be much harder for Crowley to spoil for himself.  
  
"Three days, I think. They're staying on for a week and a half."  
  
"Quite a long holiday," Aziraphale remarked, tucking the book under his arm.  
  
"Mr. Young's been saving, apparently. That and _somebody_ gave him the inexplicable urge to be generous."  
  
"How long had you planned on staying?" asked Aziraphale, trying to sound unconcerned.  
  
Crowley folded up what looked like an oversized green towel with a white palm-frond pattern and threw it in a wicker basket (which had appeared out of nowhere), shrugging.  
  
"I don't know. A week. They weren't that specific, you know."  
  
"I see," Aziraphale sighed, frowning at the basket, into which Crowley was now tossing something that looked like a tube of sun block, which was followed by a recent entertainment magazine. "Surely you don't plan to…"  
  
"Unlike some people, I at least understand that one has to make an effort at fitting in."  
  
"Camouflage?" Aziraphale had a very bad feeling about this. He didn't own any swimwear, or at least none he'd admit to in front of Crowley, and he wasn't about to fashion any for himself.  
  
"If you like," Crowley said, hefting the basket off the bed. "Come on."  
  
The beach was a short walk from the inn, across a road and down several sandy trails, which were flanked with neatly trimmed brush and tall grasses. Aziraphale stopped every time that they flushed out some small bird or creature, much to Crowley's annoyance. He finally took Aziraphale by the elbow and dragged him the whole way to where the brush ended and there was nothing but sand. It was warm, and already getting in Aziraphale's shoes. He stared ahead at the distant array of scantily clad, sunbathing humans, then stopped, frowning at his shoes. This would _never_ do.  
  
"Get rid of them," Crowley said, tugging on Aziraphale's elbow again. He was already barefoot, or perhaps he had been all along, and the cuffs of his black trousers were rolled up. His ankles were, in fact, as skinny and pale as Aziraphale had pictured them – but somehow much _nicer_ than that. Aziraphale had never thought of ankles as something particularly nice to look at, though heaven knew that humans had gotten plenty of funny ideas over time. "Aziraphale, are you even listen – "  
  
"Yes, yes, all right," said Aziraphale, hastily, wincing as his shoes disappeared. "Better?"  
  
Crowley stared at his feet for a few seconds, which made Aziraphale slightly uncomfortable. He smiled, or perhaps Aziraphale had only imagined it, and they moved on. The sand was warmer than it had felt through his shoes, almost hot on the unaccustomed soles of his feet. Had he really forgotten what it felt like?  
  
Crowley selected a spot to spread his towel that wasn't too far from a small concession stand, and he told Aziraphale to make sure the people nearby weren't watching. Most of them were preoccupied with keeping tabs on their children, or making sure the breeze didn't blow their books shut, or rubbing sun block on each other. When he turned around again, Crowley had produced a lounge chair complete with an umbrella.  
  
"Crowley, somebody will _notice_ ," hissed Aziraphale, but he was actually too pleased to really put his heart into scolding. Crowley was so _thoughtful_ sometimes. "Where did you get that?"  
  
" _Now_ who's asking stupid questions?" Crowley said nonchalantly, and then sat down on his towel. He fished around in the basket for the sun block and the magazine, then set them down in front of himself, looking pleased.  
  
Aziraphale sat down in the chair, opening his book. He might have gotten a decent start on the re-read if Crowley, now completely ignoring him, hadn't turned his head to one side, then the other, and bent to start unbuttoning his shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale watched, surreptitiously breathless. Crowley got it off quickly, no show or anything like that, and stuffed it clumsily in the basket. He leaned on his knees for a while, staring through his sunglasses out at the sea, as if trying to locate Adam amidst the scores of laughing, shrieking children. After a while, he sighed and picked up his magazine. A quick survey of the beach told Aziraphale what Crowley had already discovered: the Youngs and Pepper's family were nowhere to be seen.  
  
They spent the afternoon reading in silence.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"I'm fairly sure," Aziraphale said later that evening, over Chinese take-away, "that your skin isn't supposed to be that color."  
  
"Of course it isn't," Crowley said, intently winding some lo mein around his chopsticks. "It's sunburn."  
  
"I thought you used sun block."  
  
"Of course I didn't," Crowley said, looking up at Aziraphale as if the suggestion had offended him. "You _bring_ sun block to the beach, but you don't actually use it. Weren't you paying any attention?"  
  
"No," lied Aziraphale, somewhat stiffly, failing to pick up a dumpling until the third go. "I was quite absorbed in my book."  
  
"Besides, it's part of my camouflage."  
  
"It can't be worth the pain," Aziraphale said, studying Crowley's pinkish-red collarbone and chest – or what he could see of them, anyway, beneath Crowley's open shirt – with worry. "You're nigh on second degree, if I'm not mistaken."  
  
"I've had worse," said Crowley, mouth full of fried rice.  
  
"Very funny," Aziraphale sighed. "You're using the sun block tomorrow."  
  
Crowley shrugged, but it seemed to be a shrug of agreement.  
  
That night, once they'd cleared away the remnants and dinner and finished arguing over what to watch on television (in the end, they decided not to watch anything at all; all that sun had made them quite tired), Crowley slipped out of his shirt and turned down the covers. Aziraphale blinked, mildly panicked, but the feeling subsided when he realized that Crowley had changed his trousers into some kind of long pajama bottoms. The demon sprawled out on his side of the bed with a poorly disguised wince.  
  
"Knackered," he said, hand over his mouth, forcing a yawn.  
  
"I thought it looked painful," Aziraphale said grimly. He thought about going to change in the bathroom, but there was little use in that, so he switched out his attire for his dressing gown with a thought.  
  
Suddenly, in addition to looking anguished, Crowley was mortified.  
  
"Is there nothing in your wardrobe dating later than 1955?"  
  
"Oh, hush," said Aziraphale, crawling back onto the mattress. "If you must know, this one's 1918, and I've kept it up very well as you can see. Comes of disuse."  
  
Crowley snorted and rolled over on his side, wincing again.  
  
"My dear, let me have a look," Aziraphale said, and, without thinking, set his hand on Crowley's bright red shoulder. The smooth skin burned under his hesitant touch.  
  
Crowley hissed, hunching in on himself.  
  
"I don't understand why you do these things," muttered Aziraphale, pulling his hand away quickly. He tried to think of every remedy he'd ever heard of for sunburn, and settled for making a trip to one of the inn's guest kitchenettes to fetch ice. When he returned, Crowley was still lying on his side and facing the far wall.  
  
"Didn't get lost, I see."  
  
Aziraphale ignored him, went to the bathroom, and filled one of the soft, small towels with a handful of ice. He brought it back to the bed and crawled back in beside Crowley, biting his lip hesitantly. It was probably going to hurt more at first.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" asked Crowley, anxiously.  
  
"Nothing," Aziraphale said, and pressed the ice to Crowley's shoulder.  
  
After a lot of hissing and flinching under Aziraphale's ministrations, Crowley finally settled down on his stomach with a muffled sigh into his pillow. Aziraphale covered his back slowly, moving from one spot to the next until he'd covered all the reddened skin, then started at Crowley's shoulders again. Before long, the towel grew damp and left tiny drops of water in its wake. Tentatively, Aziraphale skimmed it down Crowley's spine, lingering where his wings would be. Crowley tensed again, shivering slightly.  
  
"I think that's good," he said, voice still muffled in the pillow. "I feel numb."  
  
"That was the point," Aziraphale said, somewhat disappointed, and took the towel back to the bathroom. He dumped the ice down the drain, briefly studying his reflection, and dabbed the wet towel over his face. Even though he'd been under the umbrella, he'd managed to acquire a sensitive, stinging blush that covered more than his cheeks.  
  
When he returned to the bed, Crowley was already asleep. Silently, Aziraphale turned out the lights and joined him. The as an afterthought, he turned up the air conditioning. It was a much warmer night than the previous had been, and there was Crowley to think of.  
  
The next morning, Aziraphale woke to the sound of Crowley arranging things on the table. The things appeared to be the makings of another continental breakfast, possibly ordered via room service. Aziraphale closed his eyes again, briefly, savoring the scent of freshly steeped tea. Crowley had made them both Earl Grey.  
  
"It's getting cold," Crowley informed him, taking a seat in one of the chairs, mouth already full of croissant and jam. "You're the laziest sod I ever laid eyes on."  
  
Rubbing his eyes, Aziraphale sat up. Crowley was shirtless except for a pair of human swim trunks, and the shock was quite enough to keep him from speaking for several long, awkward seconds. Aziraphale rubbed his eyes again, half asleep and half hoping this would turn out to be one of his mind's rare attempts at a provocative dream.  
  
"Mm," he said at length, getting out of bed, averting his eyes until he'd gotten as far as the table. From the waist up, Crowley was pink and mostly uncomfortable to set eyes on, unless he imagined dabbing the cold towel over Crowley's front, which was a bad move altogether. "Thoughtful," he muttered, picking up his teacup without bothering to fish out the bag first. He gave it up for a lost cause and hoped Crowley would think he was merely ravenous after a good night's sleep.  
  
The whole time, Crowley sipped his tea and chewed on his croissant, looking for the most part unconcerned, if a bit pinched and uncomfortable. Aziraphale wondered if he was thinking about the cold towel, too.  
  
By the time they left for the beach, Aziraphale was glad of the distraction.  
  
Once they'd set up camp, Crowley made a big, if businesslike, show of opening the sun block and carelessly applying it to every bit of exposed skin he could reach. Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly fixed on his book, pretending not to watch. All he could think of was the night before, and that Crowley would be in even more pain after another day of sitting around in the sun. All he could think of was…  
  
Crowley, really. The way Crowley didn't seem to be aware that anybody might take an interest in looking at him, the way he curled up on the towel and folded back the cover of his magazine, completely unconcerned, reading through his sunglasses. The wind had already managed to blow sand onto him, and it stuck because of the sun block. At one point, Aziraphale caught himself staring at Crowley's calf and the way the muscle arced up to meet the slight bending of his knee, the slightest hint at the back of his thigh that vanished under the leg of his black swim trunks.  
  
Aziraphale closed his book and stared to sea. He couldn't imagine why he'd assented to this. Then again, it had started over something that hadn't even remotely involved going on holiday to a place that would make Crowley feel obligated to strip out of most of his clothing and generally cause them both a lot of discomfort. He squinted at the sun, then watched the shadow of the umbrella. It was lengthening.  
  
Just then, something white and blue bounced into his lap, spraying his book and his shirt with a damp, clinging shower of sand. He shoved it away, then stared as the ball bounced harmlessly in the dry sand at his feet.  
  
"Sorry, mister," panted a young girl, who was running toward him at an alarming speed. She slowed to a halt just a few feet away, her red ponytail swinging, gasping for breath. She was nearly as pale as Crowley, and her arms and legs were covered in freckles. "That's ours."  
  
"It's no trouble, young lady," Aziraphale said, bending to pick up the ball. "Catch."  
  
Pepper did, perfectly. She smiled at him, her freckled nose twitching.  
  
"I've seen you before," she said. "I'm sure I have."  
  
"Perhaps," Aziraphale said, aware that Crowley was now watching the exchange with barely contained irritation. He was rarely a good sport about not making the initial discovery. "I daresay London is a big place, and one catches a glimpse of everybody."  
  
"I'm not much in London," said Pepper, scratching her nose, which appeared to be healed and peeling already. "It's in Tadfield I saw you. Him, too. Don't remember where, though."  
  
"I suppose it's better that way," Crowley put in unexpectedly, setting aside his magazine. "I'm sure your mother wouldn't take kindly to you talking to strange men, and your friends are waiting for you. Run along."  
  
As if to illustrate Crowley's point, a tiny, stocky girl with pale pigtails bounced up behind Pepper, wide-eyed, two fingers stuck in her mouth.  
  
"I'm telling," said the girl.  
  
Pepper made an exasperated noise and turned around, hands planted firmly on her hips. Aziraphale wondered why her mother would let her out wearing a bathing suit that seemed to be missing its middle section. Also, the shade was appalling.  
  
"No, you're not," Pepper said firmly. "You're going to say hello to the nice men, and then we're going to go find Adam and play ball some more."  
  
"Telling," insisted the girl, sticking her fingers farther in her mouth.  
  
"Don't mind Tildy," Pepper said, rolling her eyes. She tucked the ball under one arm and put her other arm around the smaller girl's shoulders. "She's six."  
  
"Dummy," said Tildy.  
  
"Quite a sharp one, you are," said Crowley, smiling at her.  
  
"Yeah, well, we've got to go," Pepper announced. "You need more sun cream, mister."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," said Crowley, and picked up his magazine again. He was peering over the top of his sunglasses, though, as if waiting for something. "Ciao."  
  
"C'mon, Tildy."  
  
"No."  
  
Aziraphale opened his book, but he couldn't quite bring himself to continue reading just yet. _Matilda_ , he thought, coaxing the smaller girl's full name from Pepper's thoughts. Pepper and Matilda. Surely Pepper wasn't the older girl's real name, though she didn't seem keen on anyone figuring out what _that_ was.  
  
"'M telling _Adam_ ," said Matilda, hanging hard on Pepper's arm as Pepper dragged her away.  
  
"No, you won't," said a familiar boy's voice. "I've seen everything, so don't go thinking you've got to tell me. Those two won't hurt you. Hi," Adam called, waving as he dashed up beside Pepper. He was wearing swim trunks not dissimilar to Crowley's, and his hair was paler than Aziraphale remembered it. Rather than red, his skin seemed faintly golden. "I didn't 'spect I'd see you again this soon."  
  
"Nor did I," said Aziraphale, smiling at him. Better to act as if a chance meeting were the most natural thing in the world. "Really, it's quite extraordinary. We're just passing though."  
  
"Nah, not really," Adam said, taking hold of Matilda's small, grabby hand, brushing some sand out of it. "Loads of people come here for summer hols."  
  
"Yeah," said Crowley, conversationally, lowering his magazine a bit. "It's charming."  
  
Adam rolled his eyes.  
  
"That's what _all_ the adults say. Anyway, Pep, c'mon. Fancy a swim?"  
  
"I can't," said Matilda, angrily, stamping her feet as Adam and Pepper tugged her along.  
  
"Don't worry, we're not going to drown you this time," Adam said, then glanced back over his shoulder at Crowley. "You'll need some more sun cream, I think."  
  
Aziraphale watched them go, then glanced at Crowley, who was scowling.  
  
"I don't know about you, but I think I've had enough for today."  
  
"You don't intend to swim, then?" Aziraphale asked.  
  
"No," said Crowley, and stuffed the magazine and his sun block back into the basket.  
  
"But you went to all the trouble of putting on…those…"  
  
"Didn't think you'd approve of them, you know."  
  
"It doesn't matter whether I approve of them or not."  
  
"Of course it does," Crowley said, standing up and shaking out his towel. "You've got to put up with my company, after all. I'm sure you'd rather say you didn't know me."  
  
"Dear boy, that's ridiculous," said Aziraphale, brushing more sand off the pages of his book before closing it. Screwing up his courage, Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes, or as much of them as he could meet through the sunglasses. "What I'd rather do is ask you to dinner."  
  
"I was just going to suggest that," said Crowley, his nose twitching not unlike Pepper's.  
  
"Tsk," said Aziraphale, folding up the chair. "The sun's gone to your head, I think."

 

* * *

The next few days carried on in much the same fashion: they spent some mornings at the café and some in the room, their afternoons on the beach, and their evenings in restaurants or searching for decent take-away. Meanwhile, Crowley's various states of undress were making all the pleasanter aspects of the trip much more difficult to bear. He'd taken to consistently wearing the swim trunks to the shore, and he'd remained bizarrely casual around the room, though he probably would have claimed it was on account of the sunburn (which was healing much faster than a human sunburn, and already peeling).  
  
On the fifth morning, Aziraphale woke to find his dressing gown loose and Crowley's arm thrown over him again. It was the first time that this kind of contact had occurred since the other morning, at least to Aziraphale's knowledge. It was curiously pleasant – no, pleasant didn't quite begin to cover it. Pleasant was just a small part of the overall _familiarity_ , as if this wouldn't be so bad if they…if they were…  
  
Not merely associates, that's what.  
  
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about the fact that Crowley's fingertips were grazing the patch of skin that his loose garment was currently exposing to the air. As if in response to the thought, Crowley squirmed in his sleep, curling up closer. He tucked his chin over Aziraphale's shoulder, as if that was the only thing he'd been lacking for comfort. His fingers flexed, too, resting fully against Aziraphale's chest.  
  
Well, that settled it. He really had no choice this time _except_ to lie there feigning sleep and hope for the best. Crowley hadn't been sleeping as horrifically late as he might, so it would probably be just a matter of five minutes, or fifteen, or possibly half an hour.  
  
It wasn't, of course.  
  
If he was honest with himself, Aziraphale didn't _mind_ having a sleeping Crowley sprawling next to him, or even partly on top of him. He'd been longing for some contact, _any_ contact, since he'd made the mistake of loosening Crowley's clothes all those nights ago in London. As chagrined as he was, he couldn't help the fact that it had – Crowley would have a field day if he knew – simply _never occurred_ to Aziraphale to picture Crowley in any state of undress whatsoever. It wasn't as if angels had ever gone around in each other's company completely naked; clothing in some shape or form had been in default nearly from the Beginning. And seeing Crowley as a serpent didn't count.  
  
Now, after even after the briefest contact and most minimal of glimpses, Crowley's human body was something to be wondered at, even sought after. He wasn't attractive by most human standards, Aziraphale knew – and he knew it as well as he knew that _he_ wasn't necessarily a catch (as Crowley would put it), either. But there was something about the mere fact of Crowley's constant state of undress combined with their newfound proximity that made the entire situation, in a word, maddening.  
  
Aziraphale clutched at the underside of his pillow, feeling heat creep up his cheeks as Crowley's hand flexed again, this time sliding low enough to brush under Aziraphale's dressing gown and rest against his belly.  
  
Startled, Aziraphale bit back a whimper.  
  
It wasn't like him to be like this. At all. Under any circumstances. Even though they occupied human bodies, they weren't necessarily _supposed_ to have to deal with, well, certain functions of said bodies. Furthermore, they were made to _ignore_ that sort of thing, which, once in a very great while, _might_ become an issue. Human bodies couldn't always be trusted. They often got funny ideas that had nothing to do with anything, except this time was different because it most _definitely_ had anything and _everything_ to do with something. With humans, it was usually lust or feelings or some combination thereof.  
  
Aziraphale could no longer be sure it wasn't the latter, and he couldn't be sure that Crowley intended for this to be happening. All in the same stroke, it was frustrating and mesmerizing and made Aziraphale wish Crowley was _conscious_ when it had a mind to have another incident. That's what he'd taken to calling them: _incidents_.  
  
And this particular incident, if it didn't stop soon, would end very, very badly.  
  
Crowley snorted gently into Aziraphale's hair, then abruptly rolled away, as if he'd had a sudden shock while dreaming. Aziraphale lay as still as he could, trembling from head to foot. He was free now, yes, but the damage had already been done.  
  
He _wanted_ Crowley, and wanting was the most complicated human emotion of all. Wanting implied a messy bundle of impulses that should not, under any natural circumstances, keep company. For instance, need seemed to have the spotlight at the moment, but Aziraphale was acutely aware that other things, shadowy things, were hovering just out of sight. There was liking and wishing and dreaming; there was the filled feeling that had come to replace the emptiness that he'd never known existed before.  
  
There was, quite possibly, love. He'd never been a stranger to _that_.  
  
Aziraphale got up and bundled his dressing gown tightly around himself, hoping that the shower walls were reasonably soundproof. Wishing took the stage, full of fright.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"It's disgusting, isn't it?" Crowley said, fascinated, picking another bit of flaky white skin off his shoulder. He tossed it carelessly into the sand and started picking at a patch on his forearm. "But it feels a lot better than it should."  
  
"You can't mean to tell me this is the first time you've let yourself get a _sunburn_ ," Aziraphale said, forcing his eyes to stay focused on the page. It had been bad enough coming out of the bathroom to find Crowley not only in his swim trunks, but lounging on the bed in said swim trunks. They covered much less of him than his pajamas, and it was too easy to imagine –  
  
"Well, no," Crowley admitted, flicking another flake of skin, "but it's been an awfully long time. As for the kinds of burns you can get Down There, they're not exactly the type for pick – "  
  
"That's quite enough, thank you," Aziraphale said tautly. He was beginning to lose his patience. Even Crowley sitting beside him on that dreadful towel and doing something as repellent as picking at his sunburn made Aziraphale wish he had the nerve to wear next to nothing. At least then the tables would be even – or, no, perhaps not. He winced.  
  
"D'you need some stuff on your face?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sun block," Crowley said, waving the tube at him. "You've been moping about and looking more rosy than usual. I can't very well put a wet towel on your face, because you'd be more likely to throw it at me than enjoy it."  
  
"I'm not sunburned," said Aziraphale, automatically.  
  
"Not badly," Crowley pointed out, Crawling over go kneel beside Aziraphale's chair, actually tilting down his sunglasses. "But you _have_ got a bit of a – "  
  
When Pepper jogged up with the ball under her arm, Crowley was in the process of poking Aziraphale's nose with his index finger. She peered at them curiously.  
  
"Has he got a pimple?" she asked.  
  
"No," Crowley said, shoving his sunglasses back in place, turning to face her. "He's finding out what jolly good fun a sunburn is."  
  
"Yours looks better," Pepper said. Her own had entirely peeled away, leaving her more freckled than ever. "Did you put vinegar on it?"  
  
Aziraphale flinched at the thought.  
  
"Goodness, no," he said. "Cold compresses. Much more sensible."  
  
Pepper blinked at him, as if she hadn't quite understood what he meant.  
  
"Ice," Crowley explained, punching up the corner of his towel. "Like for bruises."  
  
"Oh," said Pepper. "Bet that felt good, then. D'you want to play ball?"  
  
"I'm sure Tildy would mind quite a bit," Crowley said, half smiling at her.  
  
Briefly, Aziraphale wished they were as far from the children as humanly possible.  
  
"I'm afraid I'll have to watch," he sighed, closing his book. "I promise I'll cheer on both sides, though."  
  
Crowley whirled back to face Aziraphale, giving him a poisonous look.  
  
"Crowley's very good," Aziraphale said, beginning to enjoy himself. "Football, you know."  
  
"Cor," said Pepper, grinning brilliantly. "Come on, by the water! Adam's waiting."  
  
"No Tildy?" asked Crowley, warily.  
  
"Nah," Pepper replied. "Mum's got her in at the kiddy pool."  
  
"Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose it couldn't hurt…"  
  
For the first half an hour or so, Aziraphale kept his promise. He'd had a generally lower opinion of children since Warlock's travesty of a birthday, but these children, he had to admit, were not as bad as all that. Odd and precocious and far too curious, but not _dreadful_. Pepper had a spark about her, though, that was oddly compelling, and cheering did her a world of good. Adam, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to it one way or another: there was a deliberate certainty in his lanky movements that hinted at far more than infernal determination. What he had could only be described as _grace_.  
  
It was a grace that Crowley definitely didn't possess, though what Crowley possessed was far more compelling than what either of the children possessed. If there was anything Crowley _could_ do with a measure of physical competence, it was running. Anything that involved rushing at high speeds for any reason and in any medium, Crowley could do it. It seemed to be the only time he wasn't concerned with who was watching him and what they might think.  
  
In this game of ball, Crowley had to do a lot of running, because Adam's kick had more power behind it than any eleven year-old kick should, and Pepper refused to chase the ball into the water. She kept fussing with her ponytail.  
  
Crowley had never been particularly fond of water, except in limited environments and for specific purposes. He rather enjoyed bathing, Aziraphale knew, and water had been fine for traveling on right up until aeroplanes became standard.  
  
In the context of swimming or playing, he tended to shy from it in much the same way that horses had always shied away from _him_. It wasn't that Crowley saw holy water in every pond he passed, Aziraphale was sure, but there was something funny about it nonetheless. He'd never forget the time he knocked Crowley into a fountain and got himself ignored for nigh on half a century. Perhaps it was the memory of being made a fool of, or perhaps Crowley _couldn't_ actually swim very well.  
  
Watching Crowley flinch back from the waves as Aziraphale had wanted to flinch from Crowley's unconscious caress lent the theory a curious amount of credibility. He returned to his towel an hour later, sopping wet and none too miserable.  
  
Aziraphale set his book on top of the basket and picked up the towel, shaking it out before offering it to Crowley. Crowley snatched it, scowling, and dried his hair.  
  
"Thanks, by the way," said Adam, lingering just a short way off.  
  
Crowley tugged the towel back, peering out at him through the folds.  
  
"Don't mention it," he muttered.  
  
"You made Pep's day," he said, grinning. "She likes you."  
  
Crowley retreated into the towel again, muttering, "Oh _bloody_ – "  
  
"It's been a pleasure, young man," said Aziraphale, extending his hand to Adam. The boy shook it, still grinning. "Now, you see that young lady back to her mother and younger sister, and perhaps we'll see you again tomorrow."  
  
"I'll see you again," Adam said, waving as he turned to leave. "Soon."  
  
"Creepy," Crowley continued, rubbing his arms vigorously. "Creepiest thing I _ever_ – "  
  
Aziraphale banished the chair and collected Crowley's basket.  
  
"Let's get you some dinner, shall we?"  
  
"I don't like this, you know, your being on top of things."  
  
"Of course not, my dear," said Aziraphale, and led him off by the elbow.  
  
Sooner or later, you had to take control of the stage directions.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They took the Bentley this time, driving as far as a neighboring town in order to investigate a restaurant that Aziraphale had seen in one of the inn's directories. The description had promised, or at least implied, that it was at least on par with the Ritz, which had Crowley surprised, because he was of the general opinion that people were very uncivilized out here. Aziraphale reminded him that he was basing that solely on the tardy linen deliveries where they were staying.  
  
"Yes, well, it still holds," Crowley said, screeching into the nearest parking space. He'd dressed up quite a bit for the occasion, and Aziraphale found it rather disconcerting. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, as if to clear them. Aziraphale wondered if he'd leave them in the car. They clashed with the unusually fancy suit.  
  
"Er, perhaps you ought to wear those," said Aziraphale, removing his seat belt. "It might be difficult to explain – "  
  
Crowley turned his head to look at him, and his eyes were a clear, slate gray that they likely hadn't been since time out of mind. Aziraphale jumped.  
  
"You really shouldn't do that," he said, trying to find his breath.  
  
"No?" Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows. "More embarrassing than the glasses, I expect?"  
  
"No," Aziraphale said, "it's just…" _Not you, not anymore, not for ages upon ages_.  
  
"All right, then." Crowley blinked, and his eyes were yellow again. He replaced the sunglasses. "We'll miss your blessed reservation if we dally any longer."  
  
Inside, the atmosphere was low-lit and cozy, which was something Aziraphale liked that the Ritz didn't exactly have going for it. The maitre d' showed them to a small table next to one of the front windows, and, glancing out, Aziraphale noticed that it had begun to rain. Crowley shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the maitre d', giving Aziraphale a look that indicated he ought to do the same.  
  
"Oh," said Aziraphale, drawing his attention back to the table, which had a single lit candle and a bucket of champagne at the ready. "Of course." Coat-free, they took their seats. Somehow, this felt stranger than he'd expected it would, like more of a risk than he'd been sure he wanted to take. He couldn't get Crowley's eyes out of his memory, gray or otherwise. He'd simply be grateful for the sunglasses, however out of place.  
  
Crowley was busy making sure that the waiter who had stepped in to serve them was pouring the champagne correctly, or maybe just that he was pouring it, period. For all that Aziraphale had made the reservation, the restaurant was still Crowley's playing field, and both of them knew it. Once the man had gone, Crowley lifted his glass.  
  
"A toast," he said, then frowned, "to…er. Being here. Spying. All that rot."  
  
"And to Adam," Aziraphale added, touching his glass to Crowley's. "Without whom, I'm sure, we wouldn't be here."  
  
Crowley gave him a serious look, but it faded as soon as he understood in which sense Aziraphale had meant it. He drank quickly, taking a breath, and set down his glass.  
  
"I don't know about that," he said. "I'd been thinking of a holiday as it was."  
  
"You mean you would've brought us here even if you hadn't gotten…"  
  
Crowley gave him a miserable look.  
  
"I lied."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Hearing from Hell. I needed an excuse."  
  
"There's nothing shameful in that," Aziraphale reassured him, reaching across the table to pat Crowley's hand. "Everybody needs a bit of a time-out, you know. Do you remember that time I went off to the South Downs for a week and you got bloody furious because I hadn't told you? I'd just needed to get away, that's all."  
  
"Yes, and I made you promise you'd let me know before running off next time, or at least that you'd bring me along," Crowley said, almost chiding. "It was part of the Arrangement, if I recall correctly."  
  
Aziraphale thought about that for a second, sipping some more champagne.  
  
"If 'notifying each other of each other's whereabouts at all times' was intended to cover personal days, then you're not in the wrong," he said, "but I don't recall that being made explicit."  
  
"At least I always let you know," said Crowley, mildly offended. "Or nearly always."  
  
Aziraphale had to think about that, too, and compensate with half of what was in his glass. Why did demons have to have such bloody good memories? It rankled.  
  
"Fine, my dear. You've won."  
  
"What," said Crowley, around a sip of champagne, "this argument?"  
  
"If you like," said Aziraphale, picking up the menu. "I'm feeling generous."  
  
"That must mean you're paying again," Crowley countered.  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact, it does."  
  
"Here's to that, then," Crowley replied, and raised his glass.  
  
Aziraphale refilled his own, resigned. Some things required a little sacrifice.  
  
Dinner was excellent, even _better_ than the Ritz, but Aziraphale refrained from saying that, because Crowley's feelings were easily hurt when his preferences were called into question. Exquisite cuisine usually put a damper on conversation without any dire consequences, as some kinds of silence communicated more than speech.  
  
When the plates had been cleared and the dessert menus handed out, Crowley said, "You know, I think I'm too full."  
  
"Surely some coffee?" asked Aziraphale, sorely tempted at the prospect of espresso _con panna_. "Tea, even. Something to settle your stomach."  
  
"I think it got sunburnt," Crowley muttered, closing the menu.  
  
"You were a bit lax with the sun block today."  
  
"I'll make it heal faster," he said, taking a long drink of water. "Get it sloughed off."  
  
"Thank you for not picking your shoulders this morning."  
  
"I _knew_ that embarrassed you," said Crowley, wagging a finger, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Well, it's nearly all gone, so you needn't worry till my stomach starts peeling."  
  
Aziraphale glanced around the dining room, which wasn't exactly crowded, but there _were_ other people, and if they could hear what Crowley was saying, they'd probably find themselves abruptly and inconveniently put off.  
  
"Could we change the subject, please?"  
  
"I'm not having dessert," said Crowley, insistently, folding his arms.  
  
"Then you'll just have to wait till I've had coffee," said Aziraphale, beaming.  
  
The drive home was almost as quiet as the meal had been, but perhaps it only seemed that way because the espresso had put Aziraphale on edge and every little thing seemed worthy of note. Maybe he shouldn't have asked for a double shot. Still, one had to take advantage of such things when the establishment was sure to use _real_ cream.  
  
Crowley was frowning at the windshield. The road was mostly deserted.  
  
"My dear, are you feeling all right?"  
  
"Not really," said Crowley. "I itch all over."  
  
"You should lay off the healing till we're back at the room."  
  
"Can't," muttered Crowley, squirming in his seat. "I'm sick of it."  
  
"Then stop letting yourself burn."  
  
"I forgot about it!" Crowley snapped. "Playing bloody _ball_ with those brats."  
  
"You could have refused," said Aziraphale, reasonably. He wanted to reach over and touch Crowley's arm, but Crowley was in the kind of mood that would result in Aziraphale's hand being shrugged off with an unnecessary amount of force.  
  
"Not really," Crowley sighed, taking the turn that would get them back to the inn. "If the shoe fits."  
  
"Why don't you take tomorrow off?"  
  
Crowley didn't say anything, speeding up. He was silent the rest of the way.  
  
Uncertain of what he could do to repair the damage that _he_ had clearly done, Aziraphale went about the usual nighttime routine while Crowley knocked about in the bathroom. Dressing gown, newspaper, evening cup of tea. The coffee pot could at least boil water. He left a second cup steaming on the table, but Crowley didn't take it when he returned. He climbed right onto the bed and closed his eyes.  
  
Sighing, Aziraphale closed his book and carried both cups to the bathroom sink. He wondered if this was what a human fight felt like, and if Crowley would add insult to injury by making the silence another half-century one. Truth be told, Aziraphale wasn't even sure of exactly what he'd _done_. Buggered Crowley about little things that, probably, like the eye color and the sunburn, he should've left well enough alone.  
  
Aziraphale turned out the light and crawled into bed beside Crowley. He wanted to reach over and touch Crowley again, tell him it would be all right, tell him that he'd been foolish, that he was sorry. That he'd sponge off the rest of the bloody sunburn and then, without speaking, hold him and stroke his damp skin and tell him that he wanted…  
  
Oh, everything. All his body could take, all his heart could carry.  
  
Aziraphale curled up tightly, forcing himself to sleep.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The sound of the door clicking shut woke him.  
  
Aziraphale sat up, instinctively reaching for Crowley. The space beside him was empty, covers strewn the whole way down to the floor. Aziraphale blinked to clear his eyes, staring until they adjusted to the darkness. Crowley was definitely gone, and a single glance at the table told Aziraphale that the basket and one of the keys had gone with him.  
  
He got up and checked the closet and the bathroom, just to be sure. Crowley wasn't in either of them, of course, and really had no reason to be, what when there was a dark, deserted beach just a short walk away. Perfect for being alone, for brooding or picking his sunburn or whatever the bloody hell it was Crowley did when he got in a snit.  
  
Aziraphale got dressed, in front of the mirror, then took a deep breath. He watched until his reflection faded, satisfied. He didn't prefer invisibility, as it had always felt like cheating, but with humans, it was foolproof, and the chances were good that Crowley would be too wrapped up in his brooding to have a mind to notice him. He hoped, anyway. Being found out would be awkward and earn him a century's silence for sure.  
  
Outside, it was chilly enough to make Aziraphale wish he'd grabbed his coat. He hadn't bothered with the remaining key, because he didn't really need it. He hadn't bothered with shoes, either, because sand was, in the end, best taken barefoot.  
  
By night, the trail was filled with whispers and shadows that had the good sense to hide from the tourists in daylight. A cat stalked across Aziraphale's path, pausing to regard him with a curious stare. A young queen, calico, with a mouse between her teeth.  
  
The beach itself was entirely deserted except for a dark patch close to where the waves swept up and lapped the shore. Upon closer inspection, it was Crowley's towel, and the edges had begun to get damp. The tide was coming in.  
  
Aziraphale stood still beside it, hardly daring to breathe, annoyed that he felt the impulse to do so in the first place. The moon was nearly full, and the water revealed itself as the source of the whispers. Something scuttled in the wet sand next to his foot, making him jump. Only a sand crab, he reasoned, or a bit of sand that had washed past.  
  
When he looked up, he spotted something moving through the water.  
  
It kept its slender head above the waves, which must have been quite a task, as the waves were rising, swelling, carrying it closer to shore even as its long, dark body swished and cut the ebbing that carried it. Crowley had never been a particularly large snake, no more than three or four feet long, but the darkness and the whispering made him seem, for a moment, some sea serpent come haunting from the deep. As he drew closer, the light reflected off the moon lit his tiny yellow eyes.  
  
Aziraphale found that the not-breathing issue had quite been taken care of.  
  
Crowley left a trail behind him in the wet sand, slithering free of the water. The next series of breakers washed it out until it was no more than a thin, faint indentation. He crawled onto the towel and paused a few moments, coiling and uncoiling himself again, as if stretching. The moon was bright enough to show that he looked darker than usual, not just wet. Suddenly, it occurred to Aziraphale that he must have shed his skin.  
  
_Ssss_. No more than a sigh, hardly audible above the waves. Crowley's tongue flicked out to touch the towel, and he coiled himself again, strangely, only partway. Aziraphale took a step backward when the air before him stirred, blurring.  
  
Crowley lay on the towel, on his stomach, naked. His arms were folded under his chin, knees bent so that his legs swung in the air, ankles crossed. His back was perfect and pale, no sign of peeling skin, and so were his arms.  
  
Aziraphale wondered about Crowley's stomach and felt himself blanch.  
  
Crowley didn't seem to know Aziraphale was there, or if he did, he didn't seem to care. His yellow eyes drifted shut, savoring the breeze that swept past them. It wasn't that he couldn't swim, then. It was that he didn't prefer to do it in human form, and that he'd wanted to spare Aziraphale his embarrassing skin-picking.  
  
It was by turns thoughtful and infuriating, and Aziraphale was not supposed to see this.  
  
As if on cue, Crowley rolled over, sprawling halfway in the sand, arms flung up above his head. His eyes were still closed, but his lips parted on a half-smile, another sigh.  
  
Aziraphale stared, rooted to the spot. He was trapped now, helpless.  
  
From his skinny ankles to his soaked, sand-strewn hair, Crowley was white and gleaming, strange and beautiful. Before, Aziraphale had only been able to imagine it, and imagination, while useful, was a poor substitute for what was stretched out in front of him in the moonlight. He wanted to turn, but he couldn't. And _had to_.  
  


  
  
On his way back to the inn, he didn't spot the cat. She must have taken the mouse to her master, or mistress, or perhaps to her kittens. Aziraphale didn't know. He couldn't.  
  
Once he'd gotten back inside, he locked the door behind him. Crowley had left it locked, and Aziraphale preferred him to find it that way. Even if he'd sensed Aziraphale's presence, he'd at least be returning to find Aziraphale respectfully back in bed and sleeping – no, _feigning_ sleep. The instant Aziraphale closed his eyes, he knew he wouldn't find rest for hours, not until Crowley returned.  
  
Somewhere before dawn, as Aziraphale began to drift off and the first light of morning singed warning along the backs of his eyelids, he heard the door click open, and slept.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Aziraphale's cheek was pressed against something soft, and instead of shampoo, it smelled like wind and salt water. For a moment, he froze, thinking that the proper thing to do would be to disentangle himself from Crowley and go take another long shower.  
  
Even though Crowley was asleep, _he_ didn't seem to think so. He had an arm draped over Aziraphale's waist, and it tightened the instant Aziraphale tried to move.  
  


  
  
Aziraphale sighed, taking stock of the situation. It was bad enough that, this time, he wasn't lying on his back. Like Crowley, he was on his side, and they were pressed front-to-front, legs not quite tangled. Any moment now, Aziraphale's body would catch up with his brain and begin to process this bizarre information. His dressing gown was open again, and that was going to hurt more than it could possibly help, unless…  
  
_Say something_ , he thought. He had to say something. Drawing in a slow breath, he ran his fingertips from Crowley's elbow to his shoulder, cradling the smooth, new skin. Even though his hand trembled, he forced it to stay there. Crowley stretched against him, sighing the same way he'd sighed at the touch of the wind.  
  
"Aziraphale."  
  
Aziraphale's tongue was paralyzed, but he forced it past his teeth.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I was wondering when you'd notice," said Crowley, his hand dipping to the small of Aziraphale's back, as if mapping his spine to its end. "If you mind terribly, though, I'll just – "  
  
"I don't," croaked Aziraphale, and felt that more than just his hand was trembling. "Mind, I mean. Terribly."  
  
Crowley took a quick, frightened breath, then pressed his lips to Aziraphale's shoulder.  
  
"Good," said Crowley, with some difficulty, his hand drifting back up Aziraphale's spine to the nape of his neck. Crowley's palm stuck and slid by turns, shaking as badly as Aziraphale's entire body. "Because, you know, any more of this and I think I might have had to…"  
  
"Oh," Aziraphale replied, understanding, and thought that stroking Crowley's hair might calm him, so he did. "Well. There's no shame in that, either, is there?"  
  
Crowley went still, except for the shivering. It felt almost as if he was cold, except his body burned along Aziraphale's, and the dampness of his pajama trousers was difficult to miss. Aziraphale shifted a little, running his hand down through Crowley's hair, to his nape, the whole way down his long, graceful spine. Crowley shuddered and clung to him just a little tighter. Unthinking, Aziraphale kissed the top of his head.  
  
"Can't stand this," Crowley hissed under his breath, struggling until he could work his other arm under Aziraphale's head, around his neck, cradling him. They were nose to nose now, trembling, waiting. Nobody was giving stage directions, and it was terrifying.  
  
Summoning all his courage, Aziraphale whispered, "I can."  
  
Crowley choked.  
  
" _Aziraphale_ – "  
  
"I'll hold you," Aziraphale pressed on, touching Crowley's cheek desperately. "You won't have to think about it. I'll touch you. There now, I'll just…"  
  
Crowley was frozen, squeezing Aziraphale tightly enough to crush the breath out of him.  
  
"…this," murmured Aziraphale, and, before he could change his mind, kissed him.  
  
It was messy at first, rather wet, and hardly the stuff of imagination. Crowley's eyeteeth were sharp, and the first time he tried running his tongue over one of them, Aziraphale tasted a faint pinprick of blood. It vanished as quickly as it had been drawn, lapped away by Crowley's tongue, which was considerably braver and, as Aziraphale was quickly discovering, much more competent than his own. He shivered and ran his fingers down Crowley's spine again, approving. Crowley jerked against him with a whimper.  
  
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale murmured between kisses, and drew his hand back, hesitantly, to rest on Crowley's hip. It would be too easy to catch the elastic waistband and draw it down, and easier still to slip his hand lower and touch…  
  
"Don't say that," Crowley panted, his fingers fitful at Aziraphale's shoulder: clutch and release, clutch and release, as if he didn't know what to do with them. "Don't, because I'm…telling you, I don't want…this if you're…" He trailed off and swore under his breath, pushing against Aziraphale's hand, which movement was more precise than his words. He groaned and froze, his hand fisting in Aziraphale's dressing gown.  
  
Aziraphale sighed and kissed him again; it was clear that Crowley was conceding some kind of defeat, but _why_ , Aziraphale couldn't guess. They'd met halfway, really. He suspected the only problem was taking off their clothes, and if there was anything about Crowley he'd approved of from day one, it was his standard of modesty.  
  
"I didn't mean about the…er, situation," Aziraphale said, moving his hand up to Crowley's belly, which felt as smooth as the rest of him, no peeling skin to be brushed away. "I meant that I wasn't…ah, taking proper _care_ …"  
  
"Oh," gasped Crowley, his head falling forward against Aziraphale's shoulder, his fingers catching and releasing again: more agitated than before, yet simultaneously relieved.  
  
Crowley's erection was warm in Aziraphale's hand, heavy, hard and soft all at once. Aziraphale felt foolish trying to quantify it, so he stopped, concentrating rather on how stroking there made Crowley gasp and whimper and clutch at him tighter still, his skinny ankle locking around Aziraphale's with shocking strength. He wondered if they really ought to be naked now. Apologetically, Aziraphale kissed Crowley's closed eyelids and wished for nothing between them, and, with a stir of the air almost like the breeze, there wasn't.  
  
"Damn you," Crowley hissed, taking sudden, fierce hold of Aziraphale's wrist.  
  
Aziraphale felt a twinge of panic and let go of him, mortified.  
  
"I'm – "  
  
Unexpectedly, Crowley laughed, loosening his hold to the point that he could shift his grip to Aziraphale's hand and guide it back up to his shoulder, trembling all the while.  
  
"Oh," Aziraphale murmured, feeling his breath return to him even as certain other things were, irrevocably and finally, spinning out of all physical control. "I see."  
  
"Yesss," Crowley murmured, his mouth against Aziraphale's, and soon, there wasn't anything but his incredible tongue and a losing-track tally of all the things it could do.  
  
Breathless, Aziraphale pulled him closer, _tighter_. Crowley's whimpering had caught him by surprise; it was as if he unconsciously expected that it was something that Crowley would never let himself do. Perhaps it _was_ something Crowley would never let himself do. Perhaps Crowley couldn't help it.  
  
They'd begun moving at some point, awkwardly, because it was a difficult thing to do when one didn't want to give up either kissing or touching every possible inch of skin now that they were, in fact, naked. _Naked_. The word was as strange as finding himself pressed up against Crowley in the first place, and seeing Crowley that way the night before seemed in his memory like something that had happened years ago.  
  
This was here – now, and – _oh_.  
  
"Shhh," Aziraphale whispered, tasting Crowley's hair, catching Crowley still against him. Crowley's cry was even more startling than the other sounds he'd been making, and even through the haze of disbelief and wanting and _wonder_ , he could still take a moment to find himself, to be present and hold Crowley just the way he'd promised.  
  
This was wet, too, but not uncomfortable, and his thoughts flew apart as quickly as he'd gathered them back, and all that he wanted was Crowley _here_ , like _this_ , and _yes_. Crowley had his unsteady hand clapped over Aziraphale's mouth, and he was trembling with what felt like shock and pleasure, and even a bit of laughter.  
  
Aziraphale slumped, still clutching Crowley, his skin prickling all over.  
  
"I really," sighed Crowley, hoarsely, "hope you're not sorry."  
  
"No," Aziraphale sighed, burying his face against Crowley's neck. His skin was soft there, too, and damp, and had a faint salt-taste like his hair. Mysteries. They'd solved one of them, at least, and they'd always have the sea.  
  
"Sushi for dinner?" suggested Aziraphale, yawning.  
  
"Maybe in a few days," Crowley said, and relaxed. "My stomach still hasn't settled."


	2. Undertow

"Crowley," whispered Aziraphale, shaking him gently. " _Crowley_."

Crowley had never much liked mornings. They got in the way of important things, such as dozing and drifting and every other variety of sleep that he could readily think of. At the moment, Crowley had been enjoying a really good drift, and he was beginning to realize that drifting was no use unless you had somebody to keep you from feeling as if you might fall out of bed at any moment. This was based on the highly scientific data he'd collected over the course of two nights. The findings were encouraging, but it seemed as if his test subject hadn't exactly gotten the hang of what to do at sunrise, namely more sleeping. Or cuddling. Cuddling was very nice, but it went without having to be said.

Aziraphale sighed, exasperated, then kissed the corner of Crowley's mouth.

"I'll make us a cup of tea," he announced, and got up.

Without opening his eyes, Crowley slithered after him, but he only managed to catch the corner of Aziraphale's dressing gown before he got clear of the sheets. Two seconds later, the fabric went slack, and Aziraphale's footsteps continued across the room. It took Crowley's brain another two seconds to process what this meant. He opened his eyes and half sat up, blinking at Aziraphale, who was fussing with the coffee machine in not so much as a stitch. For a few seconds, Crowley just watched, fascinated. He'd never really seen Aziraphale naked before, he'd been startled to realize, and being naked with somebody in bed and seeing them up close wasn't quite the same as watching from across the room. You got a more interesting perspective. Also, you got _ideas_.

"You're going to burn something," Crowley warned, shifting uncomfortably under the sheets. He felt flushed in a heavy, sleepy sort of way, but the heaviness was in his belly and he wanted Aziraphale to come back to bed this instant. "Don't say I didn't warn you. That kind of burn doesn't peel, believe – "

There was a click, and Aziraphale turned around, looking satisfied.

"There, water's on," he said cheerfully, tugging his dressing gown back from the floor with a precise wave. He shrugged into it, but let it hang loose. "Unless you'd like coffee?"

Crowley just glared at him and flopped back down on his pillow.

"I take it that you don't," said Aziraphale, and Crowley turned his head, watching as Aziraphale carried two mugs over to the small table in front of the window. The curtains were still drawn, but it was about eight in the morning, and they couldn't keep out the light. Aziraphale rummaged in the basket, frowning, and finally settled on two bags of – Crowley squinted. Irish Breakfast. He closed his eyes again, listening to the crinkle of tea wrappers and Aziraphale's silent satisfaction in placing a bag in each mug.

Unexpectedly, the mattress dipped.

"You really ought to learn to enjoy mornings," Aziraphale said, his voice low and not at all like its usual self. Crowley shivered under the warmth hovering over him.

"Funny, that's exactly what _I_ was going to say," he said, risking a peek.

Aziraphale was smiling, but it was still too smug for Crowley's taste.

"The day's too interesting for sleeping through, especially when one is on holiday."

"Nuh," Crowley yawned. "You've got it wrong. Holidays are especially _for_ sleeping."

"Balance and moderation," said Aziraphale, apparently beginning to get the message. He took Crowley's hand and stroked it contemplatively. "There's more than just the beach, you know."

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, tugging Aziraphale's hand in to his chest. "There's this bed and these four walls and the bloody tea, too, if you have to have it."

Aziraphale looked momentarily startled.

"Well, yes, there is that," he said, letting go of Crowley's hand. His fingertips hovered along Crowley's collarbone, then drifted up to Crowley's neck, as if searching for a pulse.

"No more babysitting," Crowley said, trying not to beg. "I promise. They're leaving in a few days. Not that it matters anymore."

"On the contrary, I quite _like_ watching these children," replied Aziraphale, his smile somewhat milder. "They're not like those dreadful – ah, not like Warlock's friends at _all_. And I think they're important somehow."

"Yeah, they saved the world," said Crowley, yawning. "Big deal."

"Quite, my dear," Aziraphale murmured, and bent down.

" _You_ didn't have to play ball with them."

Crowley had always thought that any angel with an ounce of sense would stay as clear of kissing as he would of children, but he was beginning to doubt if there was even such a thing as sense when it came to Aziraphale. And it was a good thing Aziraphale hadn't got any, or he would never have found out that kissing wasn't to be avoided after all.

"Mmm," he sighed against Aziraphale's lips, content.

"The water's almost ready. Do you hear it?"

"You can't burn water," Crowley muttered, and slid his hands inside Aziraphale's dressing gown. Aziraphale had the tendency to jump when Crowley set his hands on his chest or his sides, which also answered Crowley's age-old curiosity about ticklishness. Crowley knew for a fact that _he_ was ticklish, at least in the feet, but he'd never known if Aziraphale was and he'd always imagined it would make excellent blackmail material.

"No, but it'll boil over," Aziraphale said, his arms buckling a bit so that he sagged closer to Crowley. "Evaporate. Er. Something of that nature." He relaxed into Crowley's touch.

"I don't want tea," Crowley muttered into another kiss, shifting under Aziraphale in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion. "Not – _mmm_ – yet, anyway."

Of all the things they'd done in the past forty-eight hours, which wasn't that staggering a variety, Crowley was sure that what he wanted right now was a repeat of two mornings ago, plain and simple. He'd liked the exciting, accidental air, and he'd discovered that it also worked much better if you weren't side by side. He deepened the kiss and hitched Aziraphale's dressing gown back further, thrusting up impatiently.

"Oh," Aziraphale murmured, sounding suddenly glad that Crowley wasn't wearing anything that needed pushing out of the way. "Yes."

It was very simple, as responses went, but it was all in the way that Aziraphale said it, and also in the way that he wasn't giving Crowley much choice in the matter now that Crowley had him sold. Crowley wasn't sure if the balance was off or if it even mattered whether they stuck to the Arrangement anymore or not, but he _was_ sure that Aziraphale had somehow won something the other day and that he at least had to win half of it back. Besides, he'd always suspected that at least part of the fun that humans took in having a lover was being able to tempt them. Surely he was allowed that.

Crowley got rid of Aziraphale's dressing gown with a blink and ran one foot deliberately down the back of Aziraphale's calf. The groan he got in response was more than favorable, and would definitely tip the findings back in his favor.

"Nice, isn't it?" he gasped, lamely, as Aziraphale found a sensitive spot under his ear.

Aziraphale just mumbled something, and stroked the backs of Crowley's thighs. Between one touch and the next, it was enough to make Crowley forget he'd been keeping score, enough to make him forget everything except how painfully and unexpectedly and _brilliantly_ enjoyable it was. Words failed, really, and with good reason.

Crowley took hold of Aziraphale's hands and squeezed them, feverish with warning.

" _Very_ nice," Aziraphale finally agreed, his voice sounding even less of itself than before, giving Crowley's fingers a brief squeeze back. "My dear," he panted in Crowley's ear, "you needn't – _worry_ , it's – "

"I don't," Crowley choked, his breath seizing as the tension in him shattered. Desperately, he clutched at Aziraphale, muffling his shout against the angel's shoulder. The pleasure was paralyzing, still unfamiliar, but the contrast of Aziraphale holding him against the times he'd experienced it alone was – well, he'd decide that later when he could think. Aziraphale gasped, _yes_ again, and Crowley felt him shudder.

Long, slow moments passed, and Crowley hoped that maybe, just _maybe_ , Aziraphale had gone back to sleep. He thought the mess away (rather irritating, that part), and tugged Aziraphale's dressing gown back up his shoulders, smoothing it out. The mornings had grown mildly chilly, and the covers were all over the place.

Stirring, Aziraphale sighed contently and nuzzled under Crowley's jaw.

"Would you like milk and sugar?" he asked, stretching, and got up. "Both? Neither?"

Crowley threw both pillows after him. This was going to take a _lot_ of work.

* * *

The nearest town was small and charming, with an equally charming (and not-so-small) name that Crowley promptly forgot. Aziraphale insisted, since they were staying on a while at the inn, that they ought to pick up some food, use the miniature refrigerator, and attempt to be frugal. However, Aziraphale's idea of frugal was not much different from Crowley's, so Crowley parked the car and kept his mouth shut. It looked as if they were in for a scavenger hunt through the shops on the main street; one sweep of the eyes told him there was no Sainsbury's for miles.

The same sweep told him that there was no lack of used bookshops, and it was then that he knew that he _really_ had a job ahead of him. Otherwise, they'd return home with sacks full of Proust instead of poultry.

 _Home_. Now, there was an interesting word. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Aziraphale into the nearest food-seller, which appeared to be some sort of cheese shop, though the baffling array of dry pastas and crackers and biscuits suggested that it had been known to sell more than just Brie. Crowley picked up a roll of tea biscuits and read the ingredients. He hadn't ever looked on his London flat as _home_ , exactly. A place to stay, watch television, sleep, and occasionally eat, but not home. Or maybe he thought of it as home and it was the _calling_ it home that he lacked. Crowley wandered around until he found a stack of baskets, then picked one up and dropped the biscuits inside. Aziraphale wasn't allowed to have all the fun.

"Crowley, have we got enough sugar?"

"Those little packets," replied Crowley, absently, running his fingertips idly across the wrappers of some fine chocolate bars. He wondered…

"Well, those will run out."

"Room service will stock more."

"But, look, instead of cubes, these are shaped like card suits!"

"Can you justify the expense?" Crowley could hear Aziraphale bite his lip.

"They've got lovely sugar bowls, too."

Crowley looked up. Sure enough, they had. Aziraphale was holding the box of sugar-shapes in one hand and a lilac-blossom covered porcelain sugar bowl in the other, admiring both. He gave Crowley an imploring look, then said, "The table looks so _bare_ , and – "

"Knock yourself out," said Crowley, scrabbling for at least three of the chocolate bars at one go. If Aziraphale was going to be frivolous, then _he_ could very well be childish. And devious, though Aziraphale wouldn't realize it. He hoped.

"One can't live on sweets alone," admonished the angel, considering the cheeses.

Crowley dropped the chocolate in his basket: a perfect beat.

"One would think you'd heard the opposite."

Aziraphale bristled and started to say something, but he shut his mouth instead. Crowley felt his basket jostle, and found that half the chocolate bars had been switched out for pasta. He picked up one of the packages, waving it in protest.

"We haven't got a stove."

"Yes, we have," said Aziraphale, placidly selecting a jar of sauce. "The guest kitchenette."

"I'm not sharing cooking space with the whole blessed inn," Crowley muttered, turning on his heel in search of some decent tea. He heard Aziraphale follow.

"You won't be doing the cooking."

"I'll hold you to that."

"I can't complain," said Aziraphale, mildly, and struck up a conversation with the man behind the counter before Crowley could think of a reply.

 _If all's fair in love and war_ , Crowley thought, switching one of the pasta packages back for a small tray of truffles, _then this isn't either, because it's certainly not fair_.

They didn't return until evening, mostly because, as predicted, Aziraphale had found it necessary to poke his head into a few of the bookshops. It was a good job they hadn't had to worry about any of the food going off during the long hours they'd left it sitting in the back of the Bentley. Crowley had spent most of his time lurking (he was out of practice, he had reasoned) along the back walls of shelves and once in a while succumbing to curiosity. He'd grudgingly paid for a volume when Aziraphale spotted it tucked under his jacket. He'd always had sneaking fondness for Chesterton, and the edition was complete. Over supper – spaghetti, Aziraphale's rendition thereof – Crowley retaliated.

"'If Brother Francis pardoned Brother Flea,  
There still seems need of such strange charity,  
Seeing he is, for all his gay goodwill,  
Bitten by funny little creatures still.'

"I admit, I wondered what you'd been reading," Crowley said, using his finger to mark the place, negotiating some noodles onto his fork. "Your people always were too impressionable."

Aziraphale's look was well worth the eight pounds, and they hadn't even got to dessert.

* * *

– _beepBEEPBEEPbeepBEEPBEEP!_

Crowley groaned and rolled over, finding the space next to him warm, but empty. He rummaged through the sheets until he felt the edge of the mattress, then traced a complex figure in the general direction of the alarm clock. He must have missed, because there was a yelp at the table and a second, higher-pitched squeak as something decidedly alive hit the floor.

"Crowley, that was my _teacup_ ," said Aziraphale, sharply, sounding as if he hadn't quite regained his composure. 

"Good thing it was empty," yawned Crowley, rolling over far enough to dangle over the edge of the mattress and peer at the floor. A crab, formerly Aziraphale's teacup, scuttled under the bed, angrily waving its claws. Crowley scooted down farther and reached under the bed, jabbing one finger at it. The crab froze and vanished with a small _pop_.

"I do hope you've sent it down to the water," Aziraphale said reprovingly.

"How should I know?" Crowley retorted, swinging back up onto the bed, head swimming. "I told you, we just send them."

"Teacups can't swim," said Aziraphale, worriedly.

"Good thing it's not a teacup anymore," said Crowley, sitting up. "What's for breakfast?"

Aziraphale glared at him. The table was spread with cheese and Crowley's tea biscuits.

"Great," said Crowley, brightly, lounging back against the pillows, and produced himself a tray. A portion of what had been on the table was now balanced in his lap, and as an afterthought, there was the leftover chocolate. Crowley broke off a square and bit off one corner, catching Aziraphale's irritated glance. He held it out. "Want some?"

"Nonsense, eat up," Aziraphale said with briskness that was, Crowley noted, somewhat forced. "We've got the upper end of town to visit, of course, and the match – "

"Match?" Crowley asked, mouth full.

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale said, smiling as he gathered up his saucer and the almost-empty plate of cheese. "I have it on good authority that our young friends have challenged some of the other young guests to a sort of, er…"

"Invasion of privacy," Crowley retorted. "Who were you, their long-lost uncle?"

"Of course not," said Aziraphale, popping one of the smaller pieces of cheese into his mouth. "I was merely a concerned guardian of one of the other children. Pepper has quite an arm on her, you know. There's a sturdy little fellow about sporting a black eye."

Scowling, Crowley stuck the chocolate in his mouth and sucked. He was going to have to try a lot harder and play much dirtier if the angel wasn't above using kids as weapons.

The upper end of town was, to Crowley's surprise, vaguely tourist-oriented. One couldn't have the same high grade of tacky shops in an English seaside village as one could have in, say, Florida, but the very first one they walked into managed to surprise him.

"Look look," said Crowley, excitedly, snatching something loud off the nearest sale rack. "Isn't it appalling?" He caught Aziraphale by the arm and held it up under Aziraphale's chin, then steered the angel to the nearest reflective surface.

For long moments, Aziraphale just stared into the mirror, entirely ignoring the fact that Crowley's chin was resting on his shoulder. He tilted his head, almost thoughtful.

"I was always rather fond of these," he said, finally, taking the hanger away from Crowley and smoothing the shirt down over his chest. "So _festive_."

Crowley straightened up and went to rummage through the rack again so that Aziraphale wouldn't notice that he was mortified. Being seen in public with that shirt, even on somebody else, had _not_ been Crowley's intent. Aziraphale was already at the register.

"Do you know, I don't think anybody wears those anymore," Crowley said later, desperately, as they strolled back to the Bentley with ice cream in hand. "The last time I saw one was on television, and they only wear them on television for the purpose of – "

"Nonsense," said Aziraphale, licking a bit of melted chocolate off his thumb. "It'll be perfect for the beach."

"I thought you said there was more to this place than the beach," Crowley muttered, glancing sideways. He'd suddenly lost interest in his vanilla-fudge ripple.

"Well, the match is going to be on the beach," Aziraphale replied, far too reasonably.

Crowley tossed his cone in the nearest bin. Maybe it was war after all.

They had sandwiches later in the evening, after Crowley had watched a few hours of television and Aziraphale had begun reading through his new stack of used books. Crowley had barely had the chance to finish his last bite when Aziraphale whisked away the plates (they'd scattered some crumbs on the coverlet) and leaned over. The kiss caught Crowley full on the mouth, wrenching his attention away from the television.

"What," he gasped, pulling away for breath, "I thought – "

"It's two hours yet," Aziraphale murmured against Crowley's lips, fumbling unhurriedly down the line of Crowley's shirt buttons. "I was rude to you this morning, I believe."

"Ngh," agreed Crowley, and leaned blindly into Aziraphale's touch.

If he'd ever made fun of Aziraphale for the manicures, he couldn't remember, and if he had, well, he couldn't exactly remember _why_. Aziraphale's fingers were deft and soft, always more suited to turning pages than to wielding a flaming sword, but Crowley's chest and belly burned with each deliberate caress. He caught Aziraphale's wrist and tugged it downward, catching Aziraphale's lower lip briefly between his teeth.

"Perhaps next time," said Aziraphale, quietly, unfastening Crowley's trousers, "you'll think twice about the chocolate."

"Yes," Crowley groaned, and couldn't think of anything except how useful that word was and how Aziraphale knew more about how he needed to be touched than he knew himself. It lasted longer this time, fierce and steady, breath-breaking as ever. Somewhere near the end, he bit back a sob and twisted toward Aziraphale. _Yes_.

"There's a dear," Aziraphale whispered, in one hushed breath, under Crowley's ear.

Recovering was more like regaining consciousness than catching his breath. He was cradled against Aziraphale's chest, and they both seemed to be naked now, curled together on the rumpled coverlet. Crowley mouthed the nearest patch of skin, sleepily flicking his tongue at it even as his fingers got their bearings – resting on Aziraphale's thigh, apparently – and crept in search of other warmth. Something fanned and stretched, casting a shadow over Crowley's closed lids, and ticklishly skimmed Crowley's hip.

"I was thinking," said Aziraphale, languidly, as if he'd just awakened, "perhaps we ought to give the match a miss. It's not as if the children are expecting us."

"Shirt," Crowley mumbled, mouthing the patch of skin, hoping he'd get his taunt across. He hated to resort to words when snogging would suffice. He brushed his fingers along Aziraphale's inner thigh and felt the feathers brushing his hip stiffen and tremble.

"Tomorrow," sighed Aziraphale, snuggling closer.

Crowley caught the wingtip in a loose grasp and, unseen, smiled.

* * *

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, running his fingers through ruffled feathers. " _Aziraphale_."

The angel jerked awake, tensing against Crowley for a few moments before he relaxed again. Crowley stretched his own wings, skewing the covers enough to bathe them in the cool air of the room. He listened for a few seconds, trying to catch Aziraphale's pulse.

"What is it?"

"About one o'clock," said Crowley, against the corner of Aziraphale's mouth.

Aziraphale yawned.

"A bit early, isn't it?"

"No," said Crowley, untangling himself from Aziraphale, using his wings for balance as he got up. "Nobody will see your shirt at this hour."

Baffled, Aziraphale stared at him until his meaning sank in.

"Wait. You mean you want to go…"

"Why not?" asked Crowley, grinning. He reached down, taking hold of Aziraphale's hands.

"Because," muttered Aziraphale, but let himself be pulled out of bed.

Crowley tucked his wings away and hunted down his clothes, dressing hastily. Aziraphale stood watching him for long moments, uncertain, before winching in his wings and rummaging through the assortment of shopping bags he'd accrued at the side of the bed. The shirt was ever so slightly large, which struck Crowley as hysterical.

"Not so _loud_ ," protested Aziraphale in a loud whisper, studying himself miserably in the mirror. "You'll wake the next room over!"

"You weren't so concerned about that earlier," said Crowley, dismissively, tossing two of the inn's towels into their picnic basket. "Come on."

"My dear, I don't think – "

"That's right," Crowley said, grabbing Aziraphale's arm and dragging him to the door. "No thinking."

The road was deserted, and so was the footpath through the sand. There was very little breeze, and Crowley jumped when something stalked through the high grass, making it sway wildly in the dark. Aziraphale took hold of his arm, reassuring.

"It was a cat," Aziraphale explained pleasantly. "Fine mouser of a calico."

"Huh," said Crowley. He'd always been wary of cats. Nobody seemed to know whose side they were on, and "nobody," to the best of his knowledge, included both Heaven and Hell.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Aziraphale asked in a cautious tone.

Crowley gave him a sidelong glance.

"Never mind," said Aziraphale.

Without speaking, they spread the towels close to the water. It appeared to be somewhere between low and high tide, and in no hurry to reach either. Crowley sat down beside Aziraphale and gave a satisfied sigh, staring up at the moon. The night sky was clear and bright, but not so bright that they would be easily seen. Aziraphale was staring at the water, as if brooding.

"What's the matter?" The words escaped Crowley's lips before be could stop them.

"I was just…thinking," finished Aziraphale, lamely.

"No good ever comes of it," sighed Crowley, shaking his head.

"Well, no, I meant I'll – " Aziraphale paused hesitantly, tensing " – race you!"

It took Crowley several seconds to realize that Aziraphale was already waist-deep in water, backpedaling with the tide, his expectant eyes cast back toward shore. Crowley stumbled to his feet, not bothering with his clothes, either, and splashed into the sea. The water was as bitingly cold as he remembered it, but his body adjusted quickly, and the reflexive shivering subsided a little.

"Clever," he said, kicking clumsily out to where Aziraphale was nearly shoulder-deep in the breakers. "Very clever. I'll bet you're going to remind me of this one at every – "

"Shhh," whispered Aziraphale, beside him in two smooth strokes, and caught hold of him before the waves set them drifting. He set his fingertips over Crowley's lips, then flicked Crowley's dripping hair back off his forehead. "Don't be silly."

"I hate swimming," said Crowley, through chattering teeth. He clung to Aziraphale's shoulders, shivering again. If it wasn't war, it _still_ wasn't fair.

"So much that I caught you at it, I suppose."

"I hate swimming like _this_ ," Crowley amended, hissing under his breath.

"You've never swum like this before," Aziraphale pointed out, tilting Crowley's chin up.

"No," Crowley said, kicking to keep them afloat. "Not often."

"Crowley, I was wondering…"

"Hmm?" He rested his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, waiting.

"What you expected," Aziraphale pressed on, sounding suddenly lost and cold. "Was this – "

"Yes," said Crowley, catching him close as the water rose around them.

"Fair answer," laughed Aziraphale, and, _yes_ , it was love.


	3. With Eyes Closed

After last year's late trip to the sea, summer in London seemed stifling. If Crowley had anything on good authority, it was what stifling felt like. It was why he was determined never, under any circumstances, going to permit himself to get another sunburn, and it was also one of the chief reasons he had spent so much of his career avoiding Hell.

  
One glance across the table, however, and he had to admit it wasn't much of a career these days. It was more of an extended holiday with occasional assignments that did not resemble _Mission: Impossible_ in any way, shape, or form, except for the fact that Ligur, out of sheer frustration, had taken to melting Crowley's tapes upon message delivery.  
  
Sipping his gin and tonic, Aziraphale returned Crowley's glance.  
  
"You're thinking unpleasant thoughts," said the angel. "Don't pretend you aren't."  
  
"I'm thinking that it's going to cost me a hundred quid to replace all the tapes I've lost since New Year's," Crowley muttered, swilling his Pimm's. "Care to make a donation?"  
  
"Only if it means no more Velvet Underground. No offense, but all the albums sound alike."  
  
"Sorry, angel. No deal," said Crowley, topping up his glass. "Are you going to finish that, or nurse it till afternoon tea?"  
  
Aziraphale swallowed half of what was left in his glass, looking vaguely offended.  
  
"It's been a while since we've eaten out here," said the angel, knowingly. "You've been sun-shy, which I quite understand, but I rather enjoy a bit of exposure now and then."  
  
"Then we ought to convert your roof into a patio, just like I've been saying."  
  
"You're still looking for an excuse to induce heart failure in my clients, aren't you?"  
  
"Only the best of shocks would do," Crowley said, trying not to smile, and instinctively reached across the table. Aziraphale's free hand was already there, carelessly draped over the unused ashtray. Briefly, Crowley squeezed his fingers.  
  
"That's comforting, my dear, except for the part where it isn't." Aziraphale squeezed back, setting down his glass. His cheeks had something of a flush to them, but Crowley could tell that, beneath the sun doing its work, there was something more suggestive.  
  
"Details," murmured Crowley, and drained his glass. "Waiter!"  
  
The tube was bizarrely cramped, which meant that being underground wasn't necessarily an improvement upon being above in the open air. Much to Crowley's irritation, the Bentley had decided to have its first breakdown, which had—Crowley was hesitant to admit—inspired _him_ to have a breakdown to which he was equally hesitant to assign a number. In the end, Aziraphale had had to dial the garage.  
  
"Bloody Tower Hill," Crowley grumbled, pressing up closer against Aziraphale as another twenty people piled into the train. Where did they all _come_ from?  
  
"Not for a very long time, thank goodness," said Aziraphale, conveniently shifting his arm so that it both accommodated the woman who had squeezed up beside him _and_ settled comfortably about Crowley's waist. "Say, they've opened the window."  
  
"Fat lot of good that'll do," said Crowley, just as the train began to move. There would have been an element of defeat in admitting that the young boy who had opened the window between cars was quite the sharp one. There was almost a breeze.  
  
"Pleasant enough," Aziraphale murmured, his tone mildly cheerful, and slipped his fingers down the back of Crowley's thigh for the briefest of delayed breaths.  
  
"Have I told you lately that I hate you?" he managed, scrunching in closer as the train rattled to a halt at Aldgate. A few people got off, but another five or six crowded on.  
  
"No, but deciding on that restaurant strongly implied it." Aziraphale's fingers settled on his hipbone, decidedly innocent in the least innocent manner he could manage.  
  
"Then remind me next time I'm overdue," said Crowley, making sure he breathed the words right in Aziraphale's ear. There was the shudder, exquisite, like clockwork.  
  
Whether it was love or war, fair or not, they couldn't reach home soon enough.  
  
Some damp, bedraggled thirty minutes later, they staggered through Crowley's door and back the hall to the kitchen. By the time they'd done the necessary switches and shoved their way to daylight once more, Aziraphale seemed less interested in veiled suggestion and more interested in fluid intake. For the time being, Crowley didn't think that was such a bad idea, and hauled two bottles of very expensive water out of the fridge.  
  
Aziraphale didn't even pause between gulps to thank him, only nodded profusely.  
  
Crowley wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, because, damn it, reading innuendo into a perfectly harmless gesture was sufficient excuse in his book for picking up where they'd left off. Aziraphale's shirt was nearly soaked, and his hair curled faintly where Crowley's fingers caught the wisps at his forehead and temples.  
  
"Crowley," Aziraphale protested, lifting the water bottle for another go.  
  
"I can't have you running for the loo, now, can I?"  
  
"I don't run for the loo."  
  
"Neither do I, except for the part where my body forgets that when I'm sleeping or otherwise occupied. I think this counts as otherwise occupied."  
  
The new coat of red on Aziraphale's cheeks had nothing to do with the sun.  
  
" _Crowley_."  
  
"On the tube," said Crowley, flatly. "The blessed _tube_. Could it really not wait?"  
  
Aziraphale tried to look innocent, at which he had got no better in the course of a year.  
  
"It was the perfect opportunity, even you have to admit that."  
  
"I have the good sense _not_ to," insisted Crowley, but he was already halfway finished with Aziraphale's shirt buttons, and Aziraphale had already got Crowley's sunglasses off. If there was no convincing somebody, you might as well join him.  
  
Sex in warm weather had always seemed, to Crowley's keen eye, a somewhat dubious activity as far as comfort was concerned. Throughout most of history, air conditioning hadn't been invented yet, and he'd spent the moments he hadn't had the good fortune to avoid humans going at it biting his tongue on the desire to advise them to at least go at it somewhere nearer to water. He hadn't, of course, had enough experience to take sand into account. Fortunately, Crowley's flat had air conditioning and no sand to speak of.  
  
"Shameless," Crowley mumbled, rolling Aziraphale onto his back in the already-rumpled mass of sheets. "You are absolutely shameless, I'll have you know, and—and— _mmm_."  
  
"Heaven forbid I should touch you when nobody's looking," sighed Aziraphale, and then resumed his familiar exploration of Crowley's collarbone. Ah, _there_.  
  
"I imagine they—um—do," Crowley managed, wiggling to get a better fit.  
  
"Not trying terribly hard to prevent it, are they?"  
  
"Not unless Gabriel is shredding your cassette tapes."  
  
"Perish the thought," Aziraphale whispered, and everything faded in a blaze of sweat, heat, and light.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It _had_ been the perfect opportunity. Or at least Aziraphale had thought so.  
  
Still, no matter. He sighed and shifted his weight to one side, tugging gently on Crowley's arm. The sleeping demon mumbled indistinctly, but followed, head lolling into the curve of Aziraphale's neck, one leg snaking possessively over Aziraphale's belly. Even with Crowley's air conditioning on at full blast, the covers had got kicked to the floor several minutes in. Crowley yawned, his breath damp and hot as a furnace.  
  
Aziraphale feathered his fingers through Crowley's tousled hair, frowning.  
  
They hadn't run into problems early on, surely. They'd embarrassed quite enough people over time simply by _speaking_ with one another; adding a set of physical accoutrements to the relationship hadn't changed the embarrassed receptionist quota for better _or_ for worse. If anything, it seemed to set more of them at ease, the poor dears, not having to think they were mad or closet cases anymore, though some of them were.  
  
Crowley had never let that get him bent out of shape. If anything, he'd seemed to enjoy it.  
  
Aziraphale's frown deepened, and Crowley whimpered in his sleep.  
  
"Sorry," whispered Aziraphale, smoothing Crowley's hair down against his brow.  
  
Crowley made a sound somewhere between a snort and thanks, and slept on.  
  
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. He _had_ to concentrate if he was going to make any sense of this at all. He'd known Crowley for millennia, and he'd been knowing him in _quite_ another context for nigh on a year now. If he'd been misinterpreting what Crowley did or didn't have problems with for all that time, well, _they_ had problems. Aziraphale opened his eyes again, staring unblinking at the ceiling.  
  
They were above these things, surely. Ethereal forces did not _have_ problems. They sorted them, smoothed them out, and gave them a reassuring pat on the head and plenty of lovely dreams. Or, failing that, plenty of satisfactory fantasies.  
  
But Aziraphale had the sneaking suspicion that occult forces lacked experience with that kind of thing, and wouldn't have known how to sort a problem if it gave them direct instructions in perfectly fluent proto-Edenic. But Crowley wasn't _like_ that. He'd helped Aziraphale sort more problems than Aziraphale had ever thought possible, because, prior to the whole Armageddon debacle, he'd never seen Crowley sort anything more complicated than his collection of mystery novels and back-issues of _National Geographic_.  
  
Damn it, but Aziraphale _wanted_ those magazines.  
  
Crowley stirred in his sleep again, this time nuzzling into Aziraphale's neck as if he'd be perfectly content to unconsciously suffocate in his sleep. It was difficult to think about the possibility of misreading Crowley's preferences when everything about Crowley's body language, even when he wasn't conscious enough to be thinking about what he was saying, suggested that it all but pained him to be a separate entity from Aziraphale.  
  
Aziraphale swallowed, hard, and patted Crowley lightly on the back.  
  
"My dear."  
  
"Mmph."  
  
"Crowley."  
  
"M _hrg_?"  
  
Aziraphale's mind went blank. "I've, er…got to use the loo," he finished, lamely.  
  
"Told you," Crowley mumbled, and rolled to the opposite side of the bed.  
  
Aziraphale got up, momentarily teetering on unsteady legs. He stood still for a few moments, taking in Crowley's pale, faintly scaled shoulders (he _had_ been one sunny day out on the balcony shirtless, tempting an angel, he'd said) and the rest of him stretched out basking. Inexplicably, Aziraphale's throat tightened.  
  
If there was any insight to be had on human communication of the bodily sort, it was sure to be in those early issues concerning primitive tribes in the Amazon. Either that or he ought to talk to someone who had probably studied that sort of thing because it gave her the pleasure of picking out every single complication that witches had had the good sense to weed out of their bloodlines thousands of years ago. Which didn't account for Newt.  
  
Aziraphale sat reading for hours, but he didn't call Anathema for a chat.  
  
In the bedroom, Crowley slept tirelessly on, dreaming of what he liked best.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
That, Crowley decided, stretching, had been a _good_ nap.  
  
Upon regaining consciousness, several things immediately struck him as strange. The first was not that the covers had all gone off somewhere, though that was a bit lamentable, because the air conditioning had kicked itself up to bloody _freezing_. It wasn't the rattling of the vent, either, because Crowley was too lazy to call a repairman, let alone fix it himself, and besides, it was very homey and he'd rather got to like that.  
  
His bed was short an angel who never called him on liking to cuddle. _That_ was worrying.  
  
Yawning, Crowley got up and thought of something to negligible to wear. His shorts were mostly black-silk standard, so that would do for the moment. He was too muddled to come up with a tasteful bathrobe, which he knew because he'd tried in that state before.  
  
("It looks like Tartan to me," Aziraphale had said, stuffily.)  
  
Crowley bit his lip, swore, healed the resulting cut, and stalked into the living room.  
  
The piles of magazines sitting beside the sofa almost didn't register. _He'd_ never even got that far through his own collection, let alone anybody else. There was a teacup on top of one of the stacks, perched precariously near the absorbent yellow edge.  
  
"Have you gone mad again?" asked Crowley, taking firm hold of the cup. It was half full, and one flick of his index finger told him it was stone cold of the six-hour variety.  
  
Aziraphale's eyes flicked up from the pages in front of him, pale and blank.  
  
"Look, I told you," he said, holding the magazine up by its spine. "Nests!"  
  
"I never said I didn't believe you," said Crowley, unsure of whether he ought to find the situation infuriating or endearing. "That was all in your head. Bed's cold without you, by the way."  
  
Aziraphale seemed to shake himself, lowering the magazine back into his lap.  
  
"Oh," he said, somewhere near crestfallen and hiding it miserably. "I'm terribly sorry."  
  
"You could put all those away and come back. Just a suggestion."  
  
Aziraphale finally blinked, and all the magazines were back on Crowley's shelves.  
  
"I left some tea for you, if you like."  
  
"I somehow think," said Crowley, swilling the contents of the cup in his hand, "that I'll give it a pass, thanks."  
  
"It's tricky to keep track of all these things, you know, when one is reading," said Aziraphale, and the cup vanished from between Crowley's fingers. "I just thought I'd ask."  
  
Crowley felt odd in a way he hadn't thought possible. He thought only humans got it.  
  
"Well, if you want tea, we could, you know, _make more_."  
  
"It's a bit warm for tea, don't you think?" asked the angel.  
  
Crowley blinked at him, uncomprehending.  
  
"It's nearly thirty degrees out there, and _you_ made tea."  
  
"I'm only taking your preferences into account."  
  
"Since when haven't I preferred tea in summer?"  
  
"You'd got awfully overheated on the tube, and I thought—"  
  
"I got awfully overheated in the bedroom," Crowley said, and wandered into the kitchen. The entire situation was inane and bloody _ridiculous_ , and damn it, he felt the overwhelming need to clean something. The teapot and cups would do.  
  
Over the sound of running water, he heard footsteps.  
  
"Would you like some help, my dear?"  
  
"No," said Crowley, staring into the bottom of the cup he was scrubbing. "The cook never does dishes, rules are rules."  
  
"I didn't think you had house rules."  
  
"You wouldn't follow them if I did."  
  
It was out before Crowley could bite his tongue or stamp out the thought. Aziraphale's shock was audible, and that was _never_ a good sign. Even low-grade angelic fury was something any sensible demon feared.  
  
"Oh, very charming," said Aziraphale. "Sarcasm. Have you been taking lessons?"  
  
Crowley couldn't keep himself from laughing, either.  
  
"That comeback's older than we are, angel."  
  
"I do try," said Aziraphale, a new and dangerous tone mounting in his voice. "I really do. I could stop trying to keep up with your turn of phrase and force you to revert to mine, but I suppose I'm just not sensible enough to do that."  
  
Crowley felt the teacup shatter in his hands. What was going _on_?  
  
Aziraphale was blinking at him as if blinking was all he remembered how to do.  
  
"You can go back to reading if you want," said Crowley, at a loss. He dried off his hands, hoping he hadn't got blood on the dishtowel. "I was just, you know, a bit cold."  
  
"You could turn down that contraption on your wall, for starters," said Aziraphale, and took the towel out of Crowley's hands, briefly turning it over in his own with a concerned look on his face. Absently, he set it aside on the counter and then took Crowley's hands.  
  
"No damage done," he said, softly.  
  
"No. Damage, I mean," Crowley echoed, wondering what had just occurred.  
  
Wordlessly, Aziraphale led him back to bed.  
  
It was a long evening, and a very nice one in spite of the kitchen incident earlier. Still, when he woke up for the second time, Crowley found himself alone with the same list of strange things that weren't so strange, all of them but one. There was a note in the kitchen.  
  
 _My dear,  
  
I have a client popping in tomorrow. I can't possibly miss this one; we're old chums, and I fear he won't be around much longer. Your tea's on the counter, and it ought to be hot.  
  
—A._  
  
It was.  
  
Wordlessly, Crowley drank it and went back to bed.  
  
  


  
For the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale was beginning to understand the precise breadth and range of the expression "getting out of hand." In fact, things were getting out of hand in more ways than one, pun absolutely intended. He'd been trying not to think about certain issues, which meant he spent approximately every conscious second analyzing them. Which was a bad pun in and of itself, and not strictly true.  
  
Oh, they were still having a fine time of it, make no mistake about that. In fact, until the day before, Aziraphale hadn't had any complaints, which he'd taken as a sign that perhaps he ought to get a bit more adventurous about such matters. So, he'd decided to try just that. He'd never reach the level of young, daring humans everywhere, he was sure about that—and, he'd reassured himself, neither would Crowley. An extended snog in the middle of St. James's park would _never_ do, not unless it was midnight and they were in the farthest secluded corner, but it seemed to him that there were, well, _little_ things that one could do under certain day to day circumstances that would surely be appreciated…  
  
Apparently, crowded tube cars where every last occupant was too concerned with not dying of heatstroke was not one of the aforementioned circumstances. The truth was, Aziraphale was terrified (for no reason, he'd reassured himself) that he was beginning to _bore_ Crowley, and, assuming Crowley was too nervous to do anything about it himself—which he _was_ , no offense meant—the job was going to fall to Aziraphale. And he'd be damned if he hadn't bravely accepted the responsibility.  
  
It was just that Crowley had never actually exhibited signs of boredom before.  
  
He liked his sleep, certainly, but Aziraphale had never known him to indifferently let Aziraphale leave the bed, even to go to the loo. He'd looked so _comfortable_ after that, curled up on the opposite side, and what else was Aziraphale to do but let him go on sleeping if that was what he wanted more than anything at that moment?  
  
Aziraphale poised his pencil-point on a single crossword square till it broke.  
  
Crowley was annoyed with him now, there was no mistaking the signs. He was probably still on edge about the Bentley, and Aziraphale had tried his best to reassure Crowley that even sixty years of excellent care and one post-Apocalyptic restoration were probably not sufficient to keep a human-made vehicle running indefinitely. Perhaps that was where it all started. Crowley _was_ awfully fond of that car. He'd be himself again once the garage was finished with it, though Aziraphale feared the worst. He might have to make some modifications that pointedly did not include a bicycle rack or fabric of any kind.  
  
Indestructible brakes and transmission came to mind, though that would require the misuse of approximately three separate miracles and one Aziraphale hadn't quite got around to developing. He'd had about as much success with it as with doves up his sleeve. Heaven didn't like reliance upon machines, but it wasn't ignorant of them, either. Aziraphale's computer surely would have "crashed" ages ago if he hadn't patched its innards with a few otherworldly reinforcements.  
  
Aziraphale set down his pencil and closed his eyes. A client. He'd _lied_.  
  
Before he could think of reaching for the telephone, it rang.  
  
"Hello," answered Aziraphale, relieved, and engaged his perplexed customer in conversation. A half-truth was better than a lie, but Crowley still _deserved_ better.  
  
Aziraphale just hadn't yet figured out exactly what it was that he deserved.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
For the third time that day, Aziraphale said something that made Crowley clear his throat uncomfortably. These were not generally the sorts of topics appropriate for a conversation being held in the middle of the men's shoe section in Marks and Spencer. Good _Lord_ , but Aziraphale had the worst taste in shopping venues.  
  
"Could you clarify that?" asked Crowley, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The elderly gentleman examining dress shoes in the next aisle over seemed not to have heard.  
  
"You know, recent trends," said Aziraphale. "Perhaps people ought not to be so, er, straitlaced."  
  
"You want less lacing, I suggest you investigate the ladies' section."  
  
Fleetingly, Aziraphale looked something like terrified, then… _tantalized_.  
  
"We could," he said, lowering his voice, eyebrows raised. "We very well _could_."  
  
Crowley was so stunned he almost forgot to what he was replying.  
  
"Er, I don't think they'd have…anything in your size," he finished, lamely, and instantly regretted it.  
  
"They do make allowances for these things," said Aziraphale, almost venomously. "This isn't 1893."  
  
Vaguely, Crowley felt the urge to begin backing away slowly, but he stood frozen to the spot.  
  
"There's, er, nothing wrong with the…er…shorts section," he choked out, barely managing to make the last two words audible. "We could take a look. If you want."  
  
"If _you_ want," said Aziraphale, too hopefully. "That's a start."  
  
 _A start_ , Crowley thought, spinning quickly on his heel, heading in the direction of all things knickers, if that was what would bloody shut the angel up. What on earth had gotten into him? Did his client have a taste for odd mushrooms, and had he shared them?  
  
"They've even got tartan," he babbled, trying to fill the space with anything before Aziraphale could open his mouth again. "Though, I warn you, I'm not very likely to either wear those _or_ find them attractive. I—oh, _fuck_ ," he said, under his breath. That had been loud enough for the entire floor to hear, he was sure of it.  
  
"Crowley, please calm down," said Aziraphale, both hands on his shoulders. "There's no need to rush. I understand that these things take time. I _really_ do."  
  
Crowley gave him a look of horror.  
  
"You take _time_ picking out those boring excuses for undergarments?"  
  
Aziraphale's expression flattened, and the same mean gleam from the incident in the kitchen came back from somewhere in the depths of his normally patient gaze.  
  
"If it makes any difference to you, yes, though I should like to say black is hardly more imaginative."  
  
 _I shouldn't have said that_ , Crowley thought, grimly.  
  
"Er, ah, I see," he said, attempting a placating smile. "I'm touched."  
  
"Your sincerity never ceases to amaze me," said Aziraphale, and bent to examine the tartan.  
  
 _Blew it_ , thought Crowley, miserably, and trailed after Aziraphale in silence. Whatever they'd come for, he'd let the angel pick it out and have done with.  
  
Forty minutes later, Crowley left Aziraphale at his own doorstep with a quick and (hopefully) voracious kiss, mumbling something about having work to do and ringing him tomorrow. He didn't glance back over his shoulder to see if Aziraphale had dropped his bag of socks and ties or not. Not a single one of them was tartan, Crowley couldn't help remembering.  
  
No wonder humans were always complaining about their sex lives. They spent too much time discussing them in the first place. Abruptly, Crowley missed not discussing things. He shoved his hands in his pockets, turning the corner more sharply than he usually did, narrowly missing a young, attractive female jogger. He'd seen her around before, which was sufficient grounds for an apology. After all, he'd lied to Aziraphale. In his extremely private system of morality, that warranted some kind of balancing out.  
  
Sex. Was the problem _really_ sex? Had they got to the point where they took it for granted as much as they took all the other simple, human wonders of existence on earth for granted? As much as the prospect terrified Crowley, he had to admit that it wasn't illogical. Humans got tired of sex all the time. More precisely, they got tired of the forms of it that they normally defaulted to and tended to wake up one day with the idea that they must have some hidden, inner dominatrix just waiting to be unleashed. Well, to be fair, mostly it was women who did that. Men, he imagined, spent a lot of time cowering in the corner whimpering.  
  
Aziraphale wasn't even a woman, and he was only a few blocks shy of that corner.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
That, Aziraphale told himself, hadn't gone over as planned. He fumbled the keys twice before managing to unlock his front door, and glumly let himself in. If only he'd got into the habit of being more sensitive to Crowley's moods back before they'd decided to start this relationship nonsense. He might actually have got some practice, and might not be having the difficulty he was having now. There was something Crowley wasn't saying, and if he wasn't going to say it out loud, then Aziraphale would have to find other means.  
  
If Crowley wasn't bored in bed, what _was_ boring him?  
  
The other option, Aziraphale wasn't ready to consider. They'd spent long enough getting to this point, let alone ever getting _past_ it. The thought filled him with foreboding.  
  
Maybe it was that Crowley just wasn't into fancy clothes or props. Aziraphale didn't want to consider what that left him with, but it was _all_ he was left with, and he cringed to think that his next-door neighbor would probably be a lot of cheerful help in figuring out exactly _what_ he was left with. Surely not. Crowley didn't seem the type. Besides, it was mostly women who got that way, and men, he suspected, got scared.  
  
Well, Crowley wasn't even a woman, and Aziraphale was _terrified_.  
  
Then again, Aziraphale thought, _What could it hurt?_  
  
Plenty of things, he told himself, sternly. It could make Crowley give him the same sort of looks he had given him in Marks and Spencer if he wasn't careful. It could be another wrong assumption, and it could widen the gap that they'd spent nearly a week widening as it was. By rights, he should have ended up in Crowley's bed again, or Crowley in his; that was the way of things now, and it _was_ right. Or at least Aziraphale had _thought_ it was right. One couldn't be too sure, especially not these days.  
  
Hardening his resolve, Aziraphale put on tea. For one thing, he wasn't going to purchase any books. That was what libraries were for, and, in this city, he'd be spoiled for choice. Also, there was far less chance of being recognized if he took the borrowing route.  
  
The next day, Aziraphale turned up at the British Library at nine o'clock sharp. He was glad he hadn't had his card issued in any overly recent name, let alone in one that resembled what Crowley called him in public. A small neighborhood library would have been better for fostering a sense of privacy, but small neighborhood libraries were less likely to carry what Aziraphale was looking for. And, as much as he would have liked to sit in the manuscript room all day, he doubted anything as mundane as a sixteenth-century copy of the _Kama Sutra_ was going to help.  
  
Several hours poring over books of a more modern, glossy variety left him with more questions than he had gone in with. They also left him with more certainty that the objects of said questions would, in all likelihood, make Crowley do more than just give him looks. At the mere suggestion of something like "role-playing," Crowley would probably be laughing too hard to even keep his eyes open. It was vastly unfair.  
  
Aziraphale flipped the pages of one particularly colorful guide, despairing. With such a blinding blur to choose from, how did humans ever stop arguing long enough to settle on something? As far as Aziraphale could see—  
  
The pages fluttered to a perfect stop. Perhaps _that_ was the problem.  
  
Aziraphale left the library in a rush, hailing the first cab he saw on Euston Road.  
  
They'd been shopping in the wrong section.  
  
  


  
  
  
It had been a long time since Crowley had spent any quality time with his magazine collection, but he figured that it was never too late to start. It had occurred to him that perhaps Aziraphale had come out there and begun pointedly reading _National Geographic_ for a reason. Perhaps there was some insight to be had in those early issues on the behavioral habits of Amazons. Had they even _discovered_ Amazons? It didn't appear that they had, at least not Amazons in the classical sense, though they had found plenty of lost tribes that were completely at ease with nudity.  
  
Now, _there_ were some people who had their collective acts together.  
  
Crowley frowned, flipping some more pages. There were plenty of photographs and interesting pull-out spreads, but none of them gave him any particular insight, especially not since most of them involved an over-abundance of breasts. Aziraphale was abundantly _lacking_ in breasts, at least in his present form. Briefly, Crowley wondered if it was an issue of simple body-boredom, attempted to picture Aziraphale as a woman, and promptly suffered something between a severe laughing fit and an aneurism.  
  
Nudity was all well and good, but the Amazons could keep their breasts, thanks.  
  
If it wasn't down to their bodies subconsciously wanting a bit of shape-shifting fun, then what _was_ it? The entire situation was ludicrous in the first place, because they were capable of infinite numbers of switches and feats that would make mere mortals, even women, cower in the corner. If they'd really needed that sort of thing, surely it would have happened spontaneously. In Crowley's experience, the only thing that tended to happen spontaneously was wings, and that could be quite painful, depending on the position. They didn't always happen spontaneously, though, and, in those cases, there was nothing amiss. If anything, maybe they needed to be spontaneous _less_ of the time.  
  
Crowley tossed the magazine on the floor and reached for the next one in the stack.  
  
Dinosaurs were, disappointingly, more interesting than recently discovered Amazon tribes, although they had less insight to offer into sexuality in general. It was a wonder they had reproduced or even existed at all, Crowley thought, until he realized he was forgetting the entire joke. Humans were cleverer than he'd ever given them credit for, coming up with elaborate and even _plausible_ scientific explanations.  
  
Resigned, Crowley tossed down the issue on dinosaurs and waved the yellow-spined atrocities back onto the shelves. He doubted they were in alphabetical order anymore, but it didn't much matter, now that he had no Apocalypse to pace and fret over.  
  
The tea Aziraphale had left for him the other morning had been wonderful: hot, as promised, and just as sweet as he preferred it. Crowley put some water on to boil and leaned against the stove, cursing Aziraphale's ridiculous need to spend an entire day alone in the British Library. What sane person _enjoyed_ getting dust headaches in the manuscript room? Only Aziraphale that he knew of, and maybe that Anathema Device. It still didn't explain her taste in men, though, somebody that smart…  
  
The answer _had_ to be staring him in the face, but he couldn't see it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The last time that Aziraphale had spent over a hundred pounds in a single shop had been when he had bought the shirt that some crazed executive had hit with what Crowley called a "paintball." As a rule, Aziraphale _tried_ to be thrifty about clothes and the like, because, heaven knew, the practice of honest purchasing could get costly quite fast if one wasn't careful. However, that shirt had been worth making an exception.  
  
Hurriedly, Aziraphale closed the door of his shop, locking it behind him.  
  
He made sure the table in the back room was clean before emptying his bag of purchases in the center. The array of shades before his eyes was dizzying, and he suddenly regretted his indecisiveness. Surely, they'd never find use for all of them.  
  
Still, he couldn't be overly sure of Crowley's taste, especially considering Crowley's tendency to turn up his nose at something as innocuous as an outdated pattern.  
  
Quickly, Aziraphale gathered up his purchases and stuffed them back in the bag. He'd have a go at cutting off all the tags later on, after he'd given Crowley a ring. He'd promised that much, at least, if only to make it seem as if he wasn't being avoidant.  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat, nervously.  
  
The voice on the other end was muffled and groggy. "Hello?"  
  
"My dear, you don't sound well."  
  
"'M not awake yet. Reading is more exhausting than you let on."  
  
"One of your mystery novels, I daresay."  
  
"Nope," said Crowley, yawning. " _National Geographic_. You've inspired me."  
  
"I do hope you'll forgive me," Aziraphale replied, trying for a lighter tone. "Tempting you to the erudite was not my intent." He mustn't let on to Crowley that he had plans; fair warning had only seemed to upset him. Perhaps surprise was what he craved.  
  
"I suppose next you're going to ask if I've got my dictionary on hand."  
  
"Not at all."  
  
"Well, I know what that means."  
  
Aziraphale swallowed.  
  
"What…what means?"  
  
"Erudite."  
  
Inwardly, Aziraphale sighed with relief.  
  
"Oh. Yes, of course you do. I didn't think you didn't."  
  
"Funny, but I wasn't sure where you were trying to take this conversation," said Crowley, guardedly. "I take it you did a bit of reading up on current humor?"  
  
"Not really," answered Aziraphale, relieved to be telling the truth. "Just, you know, the usual." His relief fled as quickly as it had come.  
  
"Victorian erotica is a bit silly, if you ask me."  
  
"Now, my dear, there's no call for that. Shall I pop by tonight?"  
  
"Is that what we're calling it, eh?"  
  
"Crowley, I don't know _what_ you're talking—"  
  
"Yes, fine," said Crowley, sounding as if he couldn't hide his own relief any longer. "Do." The line clicked dead, as if to cut off the exhalation he hadn't quite suppressed.  
  
Aziraphale bit his lip. This was going to be much harder than magic tricks, and there would be no call for his jacket. Which was a shame, really, because, in spite of Crowley's unchanging opinion, _he_ had always thought it rather fetching.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Due to the fact that Aziraphale was nearly always too polite to invite himself over, Crowley could only deduce that something was up. Under the present circumstances, that something could only fall into one of two categories. In Crowley's experience, while neither was to be desired, "bad" was definitely better than "worse."  
  
He'd hold out hope that Aziraphale might be feeling a shred of angelic mercy. For the moment, he'd content himself with knowing that it was the right kind of circumstance under which to be agitated enough to arrange things in order. He'd got up through 1978 in _National Geographic_ by the time the doorbell rang. He wiped his palms on his trousers—partly to clear the sweat, partly to clear the dust—and got up to let Aziraphale in.  
  
Once glance at the Marks and Sparks bag and he _knew_ he was in trouble.  
  
"Is this a bad time?" asked Aziraphale, supporting himself against the wall with one hand and removing his shoes with the other. "Are you unwell?"  
  
"No," Crowley managed, and reached for the bag where Aziraphale had propped it against the wall. Aziraphale promptly dropped his shoe and snatched up the bag.  
  
"Let's go up for tea, then, shall we? It's about time."  
  
 _Yeah_ , thought Crowley. _About time you didn't let it go cold_.  
  
They moved about the kitchen in silence, Aziraphale tending to the brewing and Crowley setting out the cups and saucers. He changed his mind twice before settling on the plain white ones. Exactly what kind of teacups went with potentially bad news? Had people decided, or was misfortune impervious to the genre of flatware one happened to be using at the time of delivery? Crowley bit his lip, quickly sucking away the blood.  
  
Somehow, Aziraphale had managed not to put down the bag.  
  
Ten minutes later, they sat side by side on Crowley's sofa, sipping tea, still silent. It would have been pleasant if it had been one of those mornings back at the seaside inn where Aziraphale had gotten up unannounced just to make tea, but this was a very different animal, even stranger than nest-making gorillas, and required handling with care.  
  
"No library run today, then?"  
  
Aziraphale took another sip before answering.  
  
"No, I've had my fill. Yesterday was…productive."  
  
The hesitation caused Crowley to glance instinctively at the bag, which was now sitting propped against Aziraphale's left ankle. It drooped open just enough to hint at various bright colors inside. What in God's name had Aziraphale bought, and how hideous was it going to look on one or both of them? Surely they weren't _that_ far gone.  
  
 _I can see that_. "Er, that's good. Great, even."  
  
Unexpectedly, Aziraphale reached over and stroked from the nape of Crowley's neck down to his right shoulder, and on down the rest of his arm. Crowley couldn't help shivering, and he found himself thinking it wouldn't have been so bad if Aziraphale _had_ done it on the tube. To be honest, he was at the point where he would have been glad of something as extreme as a snog in the middle of the park in broad daylight.  
  
"My dear, you've been a bit—" Aziraphale hesitated again, then seemed to relax with one sharp, hopeful exhalation "—high-strung lately, don't you think? We ought to just relax for a few days. You know, no more running across the city just to have lunch at old haunts. You'll have the Bentley back sooner than later; that sort of thing can wait."  
  
Crowley was somewhere between darting out of his seat and melting where he sat.  
  
"Which…means?"  
  
"We ought to relax for a few days. Er, that is, we ought to—ah—tonight."  
  
"Oh. Right," said Crowley, nodding in spite of his nerves. This was either going far better than he expected, or it was about to get far, far worse than he had dared imagine.  
  
Aziraphale's hand had gone motionless at Crowley's elbow, which suggested he was trying to work up the courage to say something that was going to be either painfully awkward or painfully honest. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
"I'd like to try something," said Aziraphale, softly, but without any of the forced ridiculousness of the other afternoon. Crowley opened his eyes, forgetting to breathe.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"I mean, I'd like to try something if you wouldn't be averse to it. It's just—"  
  
"It depends on what it is," Crowley cut in, finally turning his head, because the not-looking-at-each-other thing was starting to get _on_ his nerves. There was no call for it, especially not in a conversation so maddeningly, ridiculously important.  
  
Aziraphale's expression was, to Crowley's relief, mostly normal, if somewhat frightened.  
  
"I'm asking you to trust me."  
  
For some odd reason, the words hit Crowley harder than any others that Aziraphale could have chosen. Six thousand years spent under a blessed Arrangement, self-imposed or otherwise, and neither of them had _ever_ said that. The phrase was earth-shattering in its simplicity.  
  
"Crowley, I—"  
  
"Already do," croaked Crowley. "You know that."  
  
Aziraphale let out his breath.  
  
"Well, then. That's the worst bit out of the way."  
  
The kiss was every bit as hungry as the one with which he'd left Aziraphale on his doorstep, but somehow less urgent. Getting to Crowley's bedroom while both toting the shopping bag and trying to undress each other was interesting, to say the least, and in the end a lot of minor miracles were fired off for the express purpose of getting various items of clothing off. Crowley was particularly proud of the job he'd done on Aziraphale's tie (one of the new ones, he'd noticed), but later on, the tie was nowhere to be found.  
  
For the present, Crowley found himself pinned to his mattress with a force suggesting that there would be no help for him should he decide that help was necessary. Crowley snaked both hands into Aziraphale's hair and hoped for the best.  
  
"First off, I want you to know I've had no problems with any of this," Aziraphale whispered, haltingly, as if it took a great effort, and kissed Crowley as if to make up for it. "It's very important that you know that, because I admit I've been worried—"  
  
" _You've_ been worried! I've hardly been able to—"  
  
" _Shhh_. My dear, that's enough. You… _do_ trust me?"  
  
Crowley mumbled his best approximation of "yes" against Aziraphale's hand, growing progressively more aroused than he was frightened. If they could both admit to fear—which they could, simply by letting it show—then that, too, was half the battle.  
  
"Much though I'm tired of this game," said Aziraphale, slowly, "close your eyes."  
  
Crowley blinked at him, confused.  
  
"Game? Close my—?"  
  
"You said that you trusted me."  
  
Crowley gave an annoyed hiss that was at least half involuntary.  
  
"Yes, but I don't see what that has to do with it," he lied. _Mistake_.  
  
"That's half the point," said Aziraphale. "But I can't close them for you."  
  
With only a split second's hesitation, Crowley obeyed.  
  
The first thing to escalate Crowley's confusion was Aziraphale's abrupt pulling away from him. He felt the mattress dip as Aziraphale settled beside him—sitting, he guessed, by the warmth of Aziraphale's hip pressing into his—and heard the bag rustle on the floor. The mattress dipped and creaked, taking most of Aziraphale with it. And then, there was silence, except for Aziraphale's slow, unsteady breaths as his body moved with the motion of some action beyond Crowley's perception. It was tempting to peek.  
  
"If you do, I'm going to stop," said Aziraphale, mildly.  
  
How was Crowley supposed to make the decision based on what he didn't know? He wanted to ask the question, but a soft sound of disapproval from Aziraphale quieted his mind instantly. He was tired of the hyper-awareness that came with being deprived of his sight. He let it drop and drift away, lighter than the feathers in his pillows.  
  
"Now, lift your head."  
  
Crowley wanted to say that that was a strange request, and sure to be uncomfortable, but he held his tongue successfully and, for the second time, did as he was told. Aziraphale leaned over him again, deftly drawing something soft and obviously made of fabric across Crowley's eyes. He fumbled at tying it behind Crowley's head, then realized his obvious error before a hastily mumbled apology and a request for Crowley to lift his head again so he could retie the knot to one side. Mystery solved, or at least _part_ of the mystery solved.  
  
He felt like laughing out of elation right up until the point that Aziraphale drew another scarf across Crowley's eyes, tucked it under his head, and tied another knot at the opposite side. Crowley opened his eyes and realized he couldn't see a damned thing, not as snugly as Aziraphale had tied both layers. Crowley lifted his head, trying to estimate the general direction of Aziraphale's face.  
  
"I could just undo the knots," he said, jokingly. The nervousness had, inexplicably, returned.  
  
"But you said—"  
  
Crowley sighed heavily, letting his head fall back against the pillow.  
  
"Yes, yes, fine. That hasn't changed."  
  
"Good," murmured Aziraphale, and, kissing him, took gentle hold of Crowley's right wrist. Something bunched into Aziraphale's grasp tickled his pulse-point and made it itch. Crowley felt his throat close on something that couldn't be classified as either panic _or_ arousal. It was more like the feeling of having the rug yanked out from under his feet. Discovering that one's trust issues were unnecessary was jarring, and being shown that by having one's trust demanded was…fitting.  
  
"If that's the blue horror from your frock coat, I demand its removal from my person."  
  
Aziraphale kissed the tip of Crowley's nose, then drew Crowley's wrist up to his lips.  
  
"It's not _just_ that one, I assure you. It'll take more than that to bind your hands. Er. That is, if you would _like_ …"  
  
Aziraphale couldn't keep up the façade indefinitely, and that was comforting.  
  
"I wouldn't," said Crowley, honestly. "The eyes, I don't mind so much, but if I couldn't do this—" he slid his arms around Aziraphale's waist, drawing him closer "—then I'd be, as you put it, high-strung for sure."  
  
"I think that's a reasonable compromise," Aziraphale replied. The tickle of lace vanished.  
  
Somehow, the darkness had become as reassuring as it was disorienting. Crowley had never thought about ways of forcing the sharpness of one sense over another, but Aziraphale clearly had one up on him. Crowley buried his nose under Aziraphale's ear and breathed in deeply, winding his limbs more tightly around the angel.  
  
He certainly wasn't going to let Aziraphale think that sightless meant helpless.  
  


  
  
And he certainly wasn't letting go, either.


End file.
